


Tenacity and Turnout

by FortinbrasFTW



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Armin POV, Artistic Director Erwin Smith, Ballet, Eren POV, Jean POV, Multi, Star Danseur Levi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:46:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 56,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortinbrasFTW/pseuds/FortinbrasFTW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Titén Ballet Theatre - an icon of classical dance - has been facing struggles: the poaching of their dancers, the shifting pockets of their sponsors, and an audience that's aging out of existence. Star Danseur Levi Laurent and acclaimed Artistic Director Erwin Smith have been carrying the theatre, but when their Ballet Academy presents some promising talent, it might be time to shake things up, and find a way to make the theatre and it's spring season something truly ground breaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> cover art by [xyuwa](http://xyuwa.tumblr.com/)  
> 
> 
> Listen to the companion mix: **[[here]](http://8tracks.com/fortinbrasftw/tenacity-turnout)**
> 
> Fair warning: I knew NOTHING about ballet before I started writing this, but I did research for about a month to try and be as accurate as possible with the jargon and the environment. That being said, if you are a ballet dancer or just someone more informed than I am and notice any mistakes, please correct me.
> 
> Check out the tag for more art and comments [Tenacity and Turnout](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/tenacity-and-turnout) AND [SNK Ballet AU](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/snk-ballet-au). Enjoy <3

Did he sleep?

He doesn’t think so. He’s pretty sure people that have slept don’t keep their eyes shut even though they’re _definitely_ awake.

He really has to sleep. He _has_ to. If he doesn’t that will be the thing he blames when today crumbles around him, when he’s sitting back on this bed, twelve hours from now, swearing and bitter, still drunk off whatever he swallowed to try and sweeten his failure. 

Then he’ll probably sleep. Ironic.

He hasn’t failed, he has to remind himself. He isn’t going to fail. He won’t let himself. And there’s not much he can do about not sleeping now. It’s not his fault that his steps kept playing endlessly through his brain, and when he managed to shut his eyes various scenarios of the day ahead flitted behind his eyelids. That always happened to him. When he was younger it used to happen on Christmas: the waiting presents, all the different ways the morning could go, all playing around his anxious brain in short fretful sequences between light bouts of sleep. It happened before his first recital. Before the competition. Now…

“Eren?”

He shuts his eyes a little tighter. God, he really should have slept.

“Hey, Eren,” he feels the familiar little hand reach out, lightly folding around his shoulder and giving him a push. “Wake up!”

He lets his eyes slip open, the underside of the dorm bed on top of his flitting into view, dimly lit by the slanting light that’s just coming in through their small windows. It’s covered in posters of Carmen, Don Quixote, Nutcracker, the gaps filled in with the same photos he’s seen every morning since they got here: mom smiling over her shoulder that summer in South Carolina, dad holding him up as a giddy toddler out in some park, him and Mikasa in matching Halloween costumes (swans), Armin jumping high in the air in front of the MET, and finally, all three of them, trophies in hand, smiling so hard their faces look like they might break, sweat of the competition still dotting their foreheads.

“Eren,” Armin’s voice continues. 

Eren turns, lifting himself up on an elbow to look at him. Armin’s hair is still a wreck from the top bunk, pushed all over the place, pajamas rumpled, but his eyes are dancing.

“Today’s the day.” Armin grins.

Eren feels the excitement starting to light up his stomach, as if all this anxiety has just been the fuse burning the way towards it. 

“You ready?” Armin asks.

“Hell yeah.” Eren grins.

 

They’re hardly even dressed before Mikasa shoves her way in. But that’s pretty normal. She almost started a campaign when they’d learned the dorms had co-ed house policies and the girls had to stay five floors down from the boys (which from their experience really didn’t do much to prevent “kanoodling” as their RA liked to call it). 

She’s dressed already. She’s probably been up for hours.

“You didn’t run this morning did you?” Eren sighs.

She says nothing, propping her leg up on the barre they keep in the room and letting her forehead go to her knee.

“Mikasa!” Armin starts, “You really shouldn’t do that before days like this! What if you fell? What if you tore something or pulled something?”

“I didn’t.” She says simply, switching legs.

“Yeah, she’s not the one with the shit luck, remember?” Eren tosses as he gets his jeans on properly, shoving his sweatpants and an extra pair of shoes in his bag. 

“Knock it off,” Armin says, putting his own water bottle and straps into his tote. “You’re going to be great, you’re one of the best in the class!”

“Must be nice to be _the_ best,” Eren shoots, eyeing Mikasa as she settles back on both feet, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “You probably actually slept last night.”

“There’s no need to be nervous.” She says simply.

Armin laughs, “Yeah maybe for you.”

“For all of us. We’re good enough. We’ll make it.”

Eren swallows, turning back to pull his coat over his shoulders and zip up his bag. It would be nice to have her confidence. Maybe it’s harder when this the only thing you’ve ever wanted your entire life. And yeah, thinking about that’s that’s not helping the nerves _at all._

Mikasa’s hand finds his shoulder and squeezes. “You’ll be great, Eren.”

He nods half heartedly, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “What time is it?”

Armin checks his watch. “7:15”

“We should go.”

“We should eat.” Mikasa says.

“No way,” Eren sighs. “I’ll just feel like I’m going to hurl, anyways we ate enough last night.”

“You’ll want the energy later.” Mikasa says firmly.

“She’s right Eren, you should at least try.”

“Fine,” Eren sighs, “But if I throw up during my routine it’s your fault.”

Apparently, eating wasn’t all that appealing to anyone this morning. There’s hardly anyone in the cafe and by the time they met everybody out front at 7:45 to walk over most of them look worse than he feels. Well, except for Sasha, who’s weirdly combining food and anxiety by jamming a muffin down her throat with a panicked expression.

It’s as cold as it has been all week, just sharp enough that you feel the need to jam your hands deep in your pockets and snuggle down into your scarf. At least the wind isn’t ripping up the streets like it was yesterday, bouncing off the concrete and the steel to cut just that much colder. It’s bright as well, hardly a cloud to be seen, the sky a cold clear blue overhead. 

Their dorms sit on the square so they can see the sky well enough, sprawled out above them and filling in all the gaps between grey and steel. Out in the square people hustle by on their way wherever people go first thing in the morning: work, class, sometimes home again. The four filed lines of commuters slant down into the subway, two down, two back out. Students wander past with coffees tight in their hands. Suited men and women rush quickly and definitively across the bricks of the square in all different directions. A homeless man by the fountain buries himself deeper in his torn parka, urging his cup out a little further with busted sneakers.

“Where the fuck is Jean?” Ymir swears, tugging her collar up even higher around her ears. “It’s fucking freezing.”

“It’s not that bad.” Reiner grins, turning his big blond head up into the cold and taking a deep breath.

“Yeah, maybe not for the children of Mother Russia.” Connie snaps, pulling his beanie down firmly to make sure his shaved head is as covered as humanly possible.

“He couldn’t find his hair wax.” Marco says suddenly.

“Who?” Krista asks rubbing her mitten covered hands together.

“Jean.”

“Jesus fuck,” Ymir grumbles. “Hey, Sasha, stop jaw fucking that muffin, you’re turning me on.”

Sasha glares at her and doesn’t slow her pace, even though there’s enough crumbs to feed a decent rodent population in her scarf. Connie sighs and reaches out, swatting the crumbs off and onto the ground.

“There he is.” Annie says.

Everyone turns just as Jean shoulders his way outside.

“Fuck me,” He growls as soon as he’s out. “Why the fuck is it so cold?”

“Oh, is it? I didn’t notice while we were waiting for you to finish your manscaping.” Ymir rolls her eyes.

“Don’t argue,” Armin says sternly, “We really should get moving.”

The group accepts his directions as usual, always their little babysitter. They hustle their way down the street, circling around the square towards the theater a block or so down.

Jean shivers around the cold, looking tired and miserable as usual at 8AM. He glances over at Mikasa, slowing down so he’s walking between her and Marco. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“We’re going to be late.” Eren says under his breath.

“Oh, good, so I didn’t miss Eren’s panic attack.” Jean grins over his shoulder.

Eren steps on the back of his sneaker.

“Hey!” Jean shouts.

“We’re not going to be late.” Mikasa says calmly. “You know there’s plenty of time.”

“That depends,” Connie says, “Hey Bert, how’s the traffic up head.”

“That not funny.” Annie mutters.

“It’s pretty funny.” Reiner notes.

“It’s not busy.” Bertholdt says.

Annie rolls her eyes.

“Hey, Eren,” Marco calls over his shoulder. “You really that nervous?”

Eren doesn’t say anything. He focuses on the shape of his shoes keeping in pace with Jean’s in front of him, with Armin’s next to his.

“There’s no reason to be nervous.” Marco tries.

Eren can’t help laughing, feeling his teeth grit despite himself. “Are you fucking kidding?”

“He’s right,” Mikasa says gently.

“Yeah, maybe not for you Cojocaru.” Sasha mutters through her crumbs.

“No, Mikasa’s right,” Jean says right away, “We’ve gotten through the hard part, the auditions for the academy, the placement. We wouldn’t have been put through the academy unless the Theatre thought we were promising enough to keep on.”

“The academy is one thing.” Eren says. “The Theatre’s another.”

“Look, they care about us, they’re _invested_ in us,” Jean continues. “Sure, it’s one thing if you want to be a _principle_ , but there’s plenty of employment meat to go around and enough stage light for all of us.”

“We have made it through all the training, Eren,” Armin says, “That can’t be said for everyone, think about how many were in the class when we started.”

“Yeah, we’ve practically made it already.” Jean says.

“Shut up.”

Eren stares, and it takes him a second to realize that he hasn’t said it.

“It’s not nothing,” Annie continues sternly, leading the way ahead of the rest of them. “And we certainly haven’t made it. This is one of the most prestigious theaters in the world and you’d do well to remember it. There are children on the street where we come from who would kill themselves if they thought heaven looked like this.”

“… Gosh Annie, that’s a bit dark.” Krista says, brows furrowing. 

“It’s true.” Annie says blankly.

“She’s right,” Reiner says, “It’s an amazing opportunity, and we’re all fortunate, but we’ve made it this far and that isn’t nothing. We’ve all got what it takes, we just have to make it through today.”

They all fall silent for a moment, the sound of their feet and the streets around them filling the cold air.

“I ate too fast.” Sasha groans.

They turn the corner around the block and the theater suddenly unfolds in front of them, surrounded by a reverent square and stretching up into the clear blue sky unchallenged.

They’ve all seen it before, almost every day these past years at the academy. It should have become commonplace by now, and sometimes Eren thought it had to some of them, even if it never would be for him. 

But despite that, they all come to a stop as they see it, standing in the square without a word and looking up at it’s simplistic but austere beauty as if for the first time.

It’s not the most classical of theaters, and often times the Europeans mocked it for it’s starkness and lack of embellishment. There were no nymphs or muses or classical gods draped over the sides, no gargoyles or angels sitting up at the tops of the arches and looking down over the funny world below them. It was simple: five arches filling the square font, towering stories high and filled with Mondrian like tiled glass. 

It was stark. It was brazen. And Eren had known it was the most beautiful thing in the world since he was five years old.

He didn’t care that it wasn’t “classical”. It was proud, stolid, present. It didn’t need any of that traditional “flair”. It didn’t need ornamentation or glitz or pomp. That was all inside. It was a temple. A home for the art of movement and the form it gave back to the world. It was everything it should be. And he was potentially less than eight hours from being a part of it forever.

“Wow!” Sacha stares, “I hadn’t seen the new poster yet!”

“They must have put it up last night,” Bertholdt notes.

In the center arch there’s a long hanging fabric that moves just slightly in the wind off the square, the December show printed on it, massive and brilliant.

“Jesus…” Jean stares, “I still can’t believe he can be that small and lift like that.”

“Jean!” Eren shouts, turning quickly.

“Hey, hey, it’s a compliment!” Jean defends, “No need to get defensive just because you have his poster on your wall and lay tribute at it nightly!”

Eren can’t seem to look away long enough to glare at him.

“… I have his poster too.” Krista says shyly.

“Same.” Connie adds with a shrug.

“We have two.” Bertholdt says. Reiner elbows him in the ribs.

Eren decides not to point out that he actually has _five_. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of. He’s been in more shows than that since they got here and Eren had at least one poster before he even started here. He should have posters, he should have saved up when he was sixteen for an very rare autographed playbill. He should have ran up to the front last winter to chuck his bouquet as hard as he good at the stage and thank quietly god that it hadn’t smacked him in the face.

Levi Laurent - or just ‘Levi’ as he was almost exclusively known - was the best. Undoubtedly, unquestionably, historically and profoundly: the best.

The poster now hanging in front of them is just a small testament to that. It’s from the Nutcracker, the show that’s going to start that Friday as December rolls in. It shows him in a stunning pas de deux with Petra Rael, the female lead this season and the last three before it.

“Come on gang,” Marco says, stepping towards the theatre and turning back to smile at them. “You can’t stare at it forever.”

“Jesus christ Marco, don’t say ‘gang’, it makes it sound like were in fucking Scooby Doo.” Jean groans, following him forward.

“What’s a ‘Scooby Doo’? Is that a dance?” Bertholdt asks as he heads in the same direction.

“Russians are fucking weird,” Connie mutters to Sacha as they follow suit.

Soon enough it’s just the three of them left behind. 

Eren can’t seem to make himself move. He stays where he is, the soles of his sneakers easing over the stones, his eyes fixed on the hanging poster and the way the light catches the windows between the arches.

“Eren,” Armin says pleasantly, leaning closer, “There’s really nothing to worry about.”

He really wishes people would stop saying that. Maybe for them there isn’t. Maybe for them this isn’t something they’ve gone to bed thinking about their entire lives and waking up with every morning. Maybe they haven’t spent every moment working harder than they knew was possible to get to this exact place, this exact minute.

“Eren,” Mikasa says, stepping closer.

Eren swallows, finally looking away from the poster.

“We’ve done this hundreds of time.” She says simply. “It’s no different.”

It’s beyond different. It’s not even close enough to orbit different.

“We’ll just go in there, warm up, go through some steps with the instructor like usual, and then it’s just two minutes on stage, and we can go home.”

He doesn’t want to go home. He wants to walk inside and never leave. He’ll live in the fucking rafters if he has to. Maybe they’d write a ballet about him…

“You forgot the waiting.” Eren says.

“It’s only a few hours.” Armin smiles supportively. “They said they’d post the list first thing in the morning in the dorms.”

Eren swallows, and takes a deep breathe. He’s waited long enough. And they’re right. He’s ready.

“Let’s go.”

 

They’ve all been in the building before, but it seems far more ominous today. Previously they didn’t have to worry about anything except savoring their experience, but today was the day they found out if that experience was going to become habit and the winding hallways and greenrooms under the theater felt closer than they ever had before.

Eren’s still trying to convince his stomach to settle as he pulls on his shoes and starts in on his splits, glancing over to see Armin finish tying up his, white as usual, and joining in with straddles. Jean and Marco are off to one side doing the same, even if Jean keeps glancing over to where Mikasa’s stretching. Reiner and Bertholdt aren’t around, probably off stretching with Annie somewhere. They’ve always been freakishly inseparable. He should be grateful, with them around Mikasa, Armin, and himself didn’t get half the hell they got in elementary school for being joined at the hip.

A man with frameless glasses and swept back hair swings around the door suddenly with a clipboard and an exhausted expression. 

“Alright, I’ve got your numbers here.” He drones, unclipping the papers from his board and waving them in the air.

He starts to read off the chart, handing the number out to whomever stands up to claim it until they’re all gone.

“Five minutes, then everyone in the practice hall.” He says when he’s done, turning right back out the way he came.

Eren swallows, trying to focus on the safety pins he’s fumbling with to attach the number thirty to his stomach.

He slips. “Fuck—“ The pin pricks into his thumb and he pulls it up to his mouth. 

Armin sighs, already done with his own number twelve and stepping over, taking the pins from Eren and getting the number all organized in just a few seconds.

“Alright?” He asks, smiling up at him.

Eren nods shortly.

“Alright Jaeger,” Jean grins a bold number five now on his secured stomach. “If you want to throw up, now’s the time.”

“Fuck off.” Eren spits.

Armin puts a hand on Eren’s shoulder, gently pushing him towards the door to follow the rest of them.

Things feel a little better in the practice hall. This is the space he knows, the space he’s supposed to be in. All the rest of the academy students are flitting through the doors eagerly, filling up the space of wooden floors and mirrors with the sound of light voices and lighter steps. 

Eren glances over and sees Mikasa settling into the barre between Sasha and Krista over with the girls. She looks over at him and nods. He looks away, moving into place himself. 

He lets his fingers trace over the wood of the barre, and he shuts it eyes, focusing on that familiar feeling and letting everything else shut out. At least until the door at the back is thrown open.

“Ready?!” the voice pouring through the door yells into the space and suddenly there’s the feeling of all breath in the space simultaneously catching. 

Eren feels his posture snap, his hand drifting into place with his legs and he can see everyone surrounding him doing the same as the sound of heeled steps head into the practice hall. 

“Now, I know you all must be a little edgy this morning,” the female voice says. 

Eren glances up to see a woman with a high messy bun, glasses, and an amused expression moving down the aisles. He recognizes her instantly. 

“But don’t fuck up and you’ve got nothing to worry about, right?” she continues playfully.

Eren swallows hard. At least everyone else is starting to look a little panicked now that the top choreographer of the company, Madame Hanji Zoe, was apparently running their session. Well, it could have been worse, it could have been the director, but of course he doesn’t have the time to oversee a simple student audition.

“Remember,” Madame Zoe says, that goofy smile still on her face, her foot already tapping out a beat. “Titén Ballet Theatre is a classical organization, and nerves never helped that poise kids.”

She turns, making her way up the next aisle, eyeing the bodies of everyone she passes.

“Now, you might be thinking you’re on top of the world after making it through the academy, but it takes much more than that to join the company. We are looking for skill of course, you wouldn’t be here without it, but the true measure of a dancer is their grace, their tenacity, and their zeal. I always say the best dancers look are those who look like their bones have been put through a taffy machine and their muscles have been forged to compensate, so let’s keep that in mind,”

Eren can just see Jean look over his shoulder with an immensely confused and disturbed expression.

“Music!” She commands and instantly the piano in the corner starts. “Open!”

Eren feels his feet instantly follow her directions, chin lifting, arms centering, all the bits of his body he’s learned to know snapping into place to follow.

“We’ll start with the first combination!” She calls over the music. 

She kicks them off and Eren starts moving. He feels his feet tracing the patterns, the rest of his body following suit: pliés, tendus, degagés… He focuses on his posture, on his breathing, on his poise, doing his best to ignore the others. If he starts watching them now he’ll only get distracted.

They move through the combinations, all the while Madame Zoe walking between them, eyeing their every move, critical stare tracing with laser focus and precision. 

They make it through the combination three times before suddenly the door across the room opens again. Eren can’t help letting his eyes slide towards it even if he keeps his neck in position and instantly regrets it.

Behind him he just hears Connie swear under his breath. He spoke too soon, maybe the Director does have time after all…

A man files in, pace slow enough that it might be casual if he didn’t hold himself with such military precision. Eren remembers the first time he saw the line of that body, so fluid and so powerful sweeping across the stage with such immense control it seemed impossible. He’d seemed so tall then, hell, he seemed tall now, walking down the aisle towards Hanji with his short blonde hair swept back from his face, one hand in the pocket of his khakis, casual white blouse tucked in neatly.

Madame Zoe turns to see him, and then spins back to them. “Third combination, starting on the fifth!”

Eren focuses again, re-centering following the directions as the music adjusts ever so slightly.

He’s trying to see without adjusting his posture, eyes tugging at their sockets even though he knows its doing no good and he should just focus, but he can’t help it. He’s never seen him off stage, only at ceremonies and performances.

The director’s speaking to Madame Zoe, a polite smile on his lips and focus in his eyes. She says a few words and they start moving down the aisles together, gazes tracing Eren’s classmates. The looks are quick, passing, hardly focusing and then Zoe arrives to Mikasa and stops.

Eren’s too far away to hear them but he sees Madame Zoe say a few words to Mikasa and she breaks format with the rest of them, carrying out a few steps apparently according to special instruction. The Madame continues to instruct her, the Director says nothing, merely watches, evaluating for several minutes and then finally nodding and saying something, maybe “thank you”, before moving on.

They start to turn around his aisle and Eren’s attention snaps back, focusing completely on his own movements. _Degagés, frappés, grand battements. Degagés, frappés, grand battements._

They move up the floor, even over the sound of the piano Eren can hear the hard soles of their shoes starkly against the soft slide of slippers filling the rest of the space. 

He can’t notice it. He can’t focus on it. He just has to go through his motions. 

It feels like it takes them forever to reach him, walking slowly by. He feels eyes slip over him for a moment, maybe two and then continue on. 

He lets out a breathe he didn’t know he was holding, and quickly reminds himself to keep his stomach tight, moving into the next set of steps.

It’s easier to get a look at the director with them in front of him now, moving past Jean, and Reiner, and the rest. Even if he had no idea who he was and only saw him the street it would be more than obvious that he was a dancer. His posture’s immaculate, strong and tall and unflinching. There’s complete discipline in his body that anyone who’s tried to take similar measures can recognize. The way he holds his head, the way his hips move as he walks, it all screams of someone of immense talent on the stage.

Erwin Smith was never a Levi Laurent - but he was extraordinary in his own way, which was apparently enough the few times they had been on stage together. And it was just as it should be that when his dancing days began to pass he slid into the administration of the theatre seamlessly and in less than a few years he was company director.

They circle the room together twice and then the director moves on, filing out of the room and Madame Zoe circles three times more with specific instructions on each pass. Eren’s almost relieved when she gives them the signal that it’s over, but then he remembers exactly what’s coming next and the sick panicked feeling clambers up into his stomach all over again.

Madame Zoe makes her way out of the room sharply and the man with the clipboard comes back, directing them to the greenroom they can wait in before having their turn on stage.

The energy is practical bouncing off the walls, all eager looks and quick steps, until they’re all together, pressed into the dressing rooms and suddenly no one seems to have much to say.

Eren’s focusing on his feet, stretching on leg at a time over and over again. He can feel Mikasa watching him with concern but he ignores her, squinting hard and focusing on making sure he bends right. He can feel Armin take a deep breath next to him.

“I can’t believe that Director Smith came through…” Marco says nearby.

Jean nods silently, stretching his arms in front of his chest.

“You’d think he’d be too busy…” Marco continues.

“He’s doing his job.” Armin chimes in. “He’s a good director.”

“Yeah,” Ymir snorts. “ _‘Good’_ , that’s the word for it.”

“You know what I mean,” Armin says.

“Certainly liked the look of you,” Ymir continues to Mikasa, “What did they say to you anyways?”

Mikasa doesn’t look at her. “Nothing. They just wanted to see a few things.”

The door suddenly swings open, the man with the clipboard shouldering in. “Alright - you know the routine. We take three backstage at a time, I’m reading the order now so remember who you’re after. You leave the stage and come back here when you’re done. When one of you comes back, the next one goes out. Wait your turn backstage. You’ll be called out. Do the routine. Come back. When everyone’s done, you’re free to go.”

Eren takes a deep breath. Armin squeezes his shoulder.

“The order is: Marco Bodt, Mikasa Ackerman, Thomas Wager, Krista Lenz, Millus Zermisky, Mina Carolina, Jean Kirstein, Reiner Braun, Annie Leonhart, Hannah Litz, Nack Teaz, Ymir Hart, Connie Springer, Eren Jaeger, Bertolt Hoover, Armin Arlert, Sasha Blouse, Samuel Simon, Tom Dancy, and Daniel Tompson.”

After Connie… that’s not so bad, before Bertolt. And at least he’s not last.

“Got it?”

A few people murmur in the affirmative.

“Alright, so Bodt, Ackerman, Wager, let’s go!”

Mikasa lifts herself off the counter behind them. Armin’s on his feet instantly and Eren follows. 

“Good luck! Even if you really don’t need it.” Armin beams.

He wraps his arms around her, giving her a good squeeze before stepping back. She looks up at Eren, eyes slightly wider than usual. He forces a smile, pulling her close for a hug.

“You’ll be great.”

He’s pretty sure he feels her smile against his shoulder. “Thanks.”

He leans back and then suddenly without thinking he’s pushing his hair out of her face. “Your parents would be really proud of you, you know.”

Her eyes widen with surprise and something glimmers behind them. She pushes it back, smiling quick and small.

“Alright, let’s go!” Clipboard calls.

Mikasa nods, moving past them towards the door.

“Hey-“ Jean calls. Marco and Mikasa turn and suddenly he’s blushing. “Good luck, okay?”

Marco smiles with a nod, turning the follow the rest of them out the door. Mikasa doesn’t seem to notice.

“Smooth,” Ymir teases.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jean grumbles.

None of them talk much while they wait. They sit in silence, each focusing on their own thoughts and their own stretches or movements as they try to distract themselves from what’s crawling around their brains. Up above them they can just hear the music floating down from their classmate’s routines, sometimes there’s the sound of a jump or a landing. No applause. No cheers.

It’s hardly five minutes before Marco’s back, face a mix of relief and anxiety.

“It was alright,” He says, settling back in next to Marco. “Not as bad as I thought it would be.”

Krista takes a deep breathe when she heads for the door.

“Knock ‘em dead kid,” Ymir smiles. Krista returns it weakly as she leaves.

Jean leans back. “Smooth.”

“Oh, very original.”

Mikasa’s back next, hurrying through the door with a strange look on her face.

“How’d it go?” Armin asks instantly.

She looks at Eren. “Levi’s up there.”

Everyone in the room turns.

“What?!” Connie yells.

Eren’s stomach is somehow transforming from concrete into lead.

“No, no,” Marco says, “He wasn’t there for mine.”

“He must have been late.” Mikasa says. “It was definitely him. He’s up there, sitting with Director Erwin and Madame Zoe and the rest of them.”

Sasha groans lowering her head into her hands, “Fuuuuuck.”

Mikasa is still glaring at Eren with concern. 

He ignores her, focusing on arching his feet back and forth on the floor and not vomiting on everyone within a ten foot radius.

Soon enough Wager’s making his way back in and the line starts to move. It continues, one in, one out. Eren focuses on his feet, watching his toes curl back and forth, back and froth. Jean leaves and comes back. Then the rest of the Russians. A few more. Ymir. He flexes his toes. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Eren… Eren!”

He looks up sharply.

Armin has a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s time to go.”

It takes him a minute to really hear him.

“Right…” he stands. 

He has a feeling that Mikasa, Armin, someone, reaches out to give him a hug but he’s already moving towards the door. He’s positive a few people say things, “good luck”, “you’ve got it”, things like that, but he hardly hears. 

He makes his way down the hall, stepping carefully up towards backstage. He passes Ymir on her way back. He’s almost sure she says something. He doesn’t hear it. He’s moving forward before he forgets how altogether. 

Backstage it’s close and dark, surprisingly warm with the theatre spanning out just past the curtains. He can’t see it yet but he knows what to expect. Their first week in the academy they all snuck in, spilling out onto the stage and taking mock bows, dancing back and forth all together with laughter bouncing off the round wide ceiling and up around the tier after tier of boxes and balconies. Eren hadn’t danced, or laughed, or shouted just to hear his own voice echo. He’d stood on the edge of the stage, looked out, and he’d known then that he was finally where he was supposed to be. 

Connie’s music is filling the space all around them. Giselle. Act I. 

Eren can’t really see his routine from where he is but he’s seen it enough in practice these past six months. He can hear his feet hitting from where he’s standing. Connie always hit the ground a little too hard for someone of his height. 

There’s a jump, then another, and the music falls to a close. 

He hears something that might be a muffled “thank you”, but he can’t be sure if it was Connie or the reviewers. Connie’s steps are moving towards him, hurrying off the stage. He pushes back into the darkness, the sound of his heavy breathing suddenly filling up the space. Or is that Eren’s? Connie moves past him sweat still shining on his forehead. Eren barely manages to smile back.

“NUMBER THIRTY: JAEGER, EREN.”

The sound cuts through the space echoing and huge but suddenly, strangely, he’s not afraid any more.

He shuts his eyes. He takes a deep breath. The music starts and he moves towards the stage.

The lights hit him hard and they’re brighter than he expected, but that’s all the better. It shuts out everything else: the seats, the audience, everything, leaving just him, the music, and the space. All the familiar things about the stage surround him and suddenly he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be, that wide smooth black surface under his feet, scuffed and scrapped from the jumps and movements of thousands before him: his friends, his mentors, his idols, and now, him.

The music shifts, Don Quixote, Act II, Scene II. Eren shifts along with it, preparing for the first jump coming out of the first set of turns, focusing on keeping his feet neat, building the force without letting his body fall out of line. 

He can hear Amin’s voice in his mind carefully reminding him, _“Allegro, allegro,”_

He can see Mikasa’s feet landing exactly where they should, lifting with impossible control, _“Ballon, cabriole,”_

The music swells. He focuses. There’s only a bit more, the final jumps, the last turns. He shuts everything else out, ignoring the sweat that’s already slipping down his forehead, refusing to let his ankle slip to the side. 

_Couru. Assemblé en tournant. En Face._

_And Arabesque._

Hold. Done.

Eren takes a deep breath, suddenly seeing the theatre for the first time. He can feel his heart battering in his chest, his breath coming fast and firm.

He did it. He actually fucking did it. And it was good. It was really fucking good.

He relaxes, slipping back into a more casual stance with a small bow, unable to keep the smile off his face. When he looks up again he actually takes a moment to focus.

Madame Zoe is there, leaning on her elbows on the table and squinting through her glasses. Director Erwin is next to her, a pen between two fingers, leaned back, eyes focused gently on the stage. And next to him… she was right. He was there.

Eren feels his pulse pick up all over again. Levi’s there. Right there. _Right there!_

He’s leaned back in his chair so far it looks like it might actually fall, boots up on the table in front of him. He has his arms crossed in front of his chest. He’s eyeing the director’s notes with an almost painfully bored expression on his face. 

It’s so strange to see him sitting there like just another… person. It’s not that he looks all that different out of costume and makeup, not floating around a stage with impossible height and grace. It’s just sitting there, with sharp toed boots and black jeans and a jacket Eren’s pretty sure costs as much as his own car, he looks, well, impressive, just in a whole new way. Levi’s eyes turn lazily to his face and Eren catches his breathe.

“Jaeger?” A voice sounds.

He looks away sharply, face suddenly flooding with heat. “I’m sorry?”

Director Erwin is watching him carefully. Madame Zoe is leaning over the table.

“That choreography, it was… interesting.” she says.

“Oh, um, thank you?” he tries, attempting to swallow the dry feeling out of his throat.

“It had a similar style to Miss Ackerman’s routine.” Director Smith notes. 

Eren stares. “Uh, yes.”

There’s a pause.

Levi sighs, “Did the same kid do your routine?”

Eren tries to pull it together. He’s been imagining standing in a room with these people since he was sixteen and now not only is he here but he’s actually talking to them. He swallows and tries to act like a normal person.

“Yes. Armin Arlert. Sir.”

Levi snorts. “He’s ‘Sir’, kid. I’m not that fucking old.” He tilts his head to one side to gesture at the director.

Eren’s almost sure he sees the director roll his eyes.

“Thank you.” Director Smith says firmly, giving Eren a short polite nod.

Eren manages to smile, “Thank you.”

He’s off the stage five seconds later.

“Hey, how’d it go?” Bertholdt says, grabbing his arm quickly backstage.

“Good.” Eren says. A smile starts to spread across his face. “Great, actually. I think.”

Bertholdt can’t seem to manage his own smile just yet.

By the time Eren’s back in the dressing room his chest feels twenty pounds lighter. He still can’t seem to stop smiling.

Armin and Mikasa hit him full force as soon as he’s through the door. “How’d it go?” Armin asks.

“Look at him,” Sasha sighs, “He did great.”

Eren suddenly frowns, “Armin - don’t you have to go?”

“Yes.” Mikasa says, shoving Armin towards the door and down the hall.

“I wanted to see you before I went!” Armin starts.

“Go. Now.” Mikasa insists, giving him a final push.

“Wait they—“ Eren starts, but Armin’s already half way down the corridor, rushing towards backstage. “But…”

“He doesn’t need to know.” Mikasa says next to him.

Eren looks over at her, “They asked you too didn’t they? About the choreography?”

Mikasa nods. “Of course they did. It’s extraordinary.”

Eren frowns. “Then why not—?”

“They’ll ask him. In there. No need to make him nervous. And when he comes back, don’t press him about it. It’s his business if he wants to tell us what happened.”

Eren swallows. His heart is still thudding in his chest. 

“Did you really do well?” Mikasa asks, leaning over to tap her shoulder against his.

Eren grins back at her. “Yeah. I did.”

The very corner of her lip tilts up in the smallest of smiles. “Good.”

 

Armin’s back before too long and he’s almost the last so they don’t have long to wait. They meet the rest of the group outside, pacing around in the cold, high and bouncing on that chaotic mix of adrenaline and anxiety that’s more common to all of them by now that it rightly should be. It’s strange to think that this might be just the beginning, that if things go exactly right this will be one of the easier days on their lives, but Eren’s not thinking about that now. It was a good day, and he’s allowed to bask for at least a little while.

Jean and Reiner are insisting they need at least one drink before crashing, which turns into two, and then three, and for a few of them a good deal more than that. Bertholdt and Reiner are singing Russian folk songs with their arms around each other for support as they crash back towards the dorm building. Sasha’s hiccuping every two seconds, and Connie’s somehow finding it hilarious every single time. Marco’s trying to braid Ymir’s hair and she’s trying to fight him off all the while which would work better if she wasn’t wearing Krista’s big knit mittens.

By the time Eren and Armin stumble into the elevator their numbers have diminished. Jean’s still ranting next to them about how he knew he’d do fine this whole time and there was never anything to be nervous about. And Eren must be in a good mood because it’s not even annoying him, it’s all just merging into a pleasant hum of sleepy contented satisfaction.

Eren hits his bed face-first and apparently Armin’s too tired to wake him up and make him brush his teeth because he can hear him shedding layers and climbing into his nest of a top bunk already.

It takes all of ten minutes for him to pass out for good, his dreams shifting back and forth with worn stage floors, broody eyes, and lights so bright it’s like the world being born.

 

“Eren! Eren!”

There’s a crowd cheering, chanting, calling. For him. The lights are brilliant, there’s flowers on the stage. There’s an audience spread out in front of him, stories high, miles deep—

“Eren!” Someone squeezes his shoulder. Hard.

“Huh—?” he shoots awake, eyes snapping open misty and blinking.

It’s bright all around them. Far brighter than it should be. How late did he sleep in anyways?

Someone’s still talking to him.

“What?” He manages, trying to sit up.

“The list!” Armin says, jumping off his bed and tugging on his jeans. “They said they posted the list! It’s up right now, downstairs.”

Eren practically falls out of bed. He’s on his jeans in two seconds, tugging his shirt on instantly. “What? Did you see it? Did we make it?”

“Jean just said it was up, we’re all going now!” Armin insists, chucking one of Eren’s sneakers at him and grabbing at the door.

“Shit—“ Eren just manages to pull his last shoe on as he stumbles out behind him.

Armin hits the button for the elevator.

“Too long, too fucking long!” Eren insists, pulling the door to the stairs open next to them.

He’s not even sure he touches most of them.

He can hear the excited crowd even before he hits the bottom floor. His shoulder smashes into the door and he’s shoving his way into the crowd instantly.

“Hey, Eren—!” Someone calls out but he doesn’t pay attention. He squeezes between bodies, pushing, shoving, and finally, finally, he can see it.

It’s a small piece of paper, ordinary as anything, tacked up to the wall.

“Titén Ballet Theatre - Class 104 - The Following Have Earned Acceptance to the Company…”

He feels his breath caught in his throat. There’s supporting hands on his shoulders, warm words in his ears, but it doesn’t count, none of it counts until he actually _sees._

“#1 - Mikasa Ackerman, #2 - Reiner Braun, #3 - Bertolt Hoover, #4 - Annie Leonhart, #5 - Eren Jaeger, #6 - Jean Kirstein—“

Eren stares.

“#5 - Eren Jaeger.”

He lets himself start to smile.

“#5 - Eren Jaeger.”

People are yelling congratulations, he can see Mikasa next to him smiling through her bangs. The rest of the list is flitting through his brain, “#7 Marco Body, #9 Connie Springer, #10 Sasha Blouse, #11 Krista Lenz, #12 Armin Arlert, #13 Ymir Hart…” 

All of them. Thirteen accepted. They made it. All of them.

“#5 - Eren Jaeger.”

He made it. They made it. Together.

It’s a piece of paper on a wall. It’s impossibly simple, small, and in the scope of things, maybe insignificant. But it’s there all the same. A piece of paper with his name. And truly, for the first time, it feels like it’s just the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave Levi a last name based off of historical french-jewish last names, since my head canon is that Levi's jewish.
> 
> The theatre description is based off of the American Ballet Theatre, even though the company itself is fictional.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So um, [xyuwa](http://xyuwa.tumblr.com/) did some art ;___;

The crowd is dense and shining, all shifting silks, dull pearls, and bright whites aglow under the golden lights of the chandeliers overhead. The lobby is full of the sound of laughter that’s only half indulged, introductions and pleasantries being properly made, and steps that all push inevitable towards the same destination.

Armin peers through them all, looking towards where he knows the doors to the theatre are waiting. The sleeves on his jacket are a little too long and he can’t seem to stop fiddling with them where they slip down around his thumb.

“Come on, Armin, give it some shoulder,” Jean says.

“Why don’t you ‘give it some shoulder’?” Eren snaps, “We need to get to our seats.”

“Why? They're our seats, Eren, jesus. It's not the movie theatre.”

_“I know it’s not the movie theatre!”_

“Stop it you two,” Armin says, turning away from the crowd to face them.

They do, albeit reluctantly, rolling their eyes in a freakishly similar way for two people who hate each other so much. Behind them he can see the rest of their group making it’s way through the crowd and towards the theatre doors. It’s almost comical to see them all dressed up.They usually spend so much time on the other side of the curtain, never really getting the chance to assume the necessary pomp of the audience.

But they’re celebrating, and they deserve it.

“Jesus christ, it’s fucking sweltering in here. Don’t rich people sweat?” Ymir shoves her way through a few patrons towards them wearing long green slink with a low neck.

Krista’s trailing behind her in a lovely blush tone with a princess style bodice. Connie’s along with them, black and white, like the rest of the guys, although he looks significantly more uncomfortable in it. Armin always thought it was funny how men’s clothes were so plain in comparison to women’s. It seemed something exclusively human. Everywhere else in nature males were arrayed in as much splendor as possible. He’s not totally sure if it’s misogyny or simply indolence. 

“Where’s Sasha?” Armin asks, scanning the crowd.

“Hoarding bar nuts,” Connie answers, “I think one of these days her bra’s going to sprout something in springtime.”

He keeps scanning. He can see Annie, Reiner, and Bertholdt near the bar, looking like some Vogue spread with their drinks and poise. Reiner’s laughing at something Bertholdt’s said even if Bertholdt doesn’t seem to think it’s quite that hilarious, while Annie simply watches the crowd, numb as usual, taking it all in with a slow and steady pace. She’s always reminded Armin of a glacier: cold, dauntless, unflinching, and yet always moving towards something, inch by inch, and just looking at her stillness, you’d never suspect that in her wake were the bones of mountains.

“What about Mikasa?” Eren asks.

“Here.” And she is, stepping easily out of the crowd. She’s wearing the dark red dress with the low back Armin knows is one of only two that she keeps in the dorms. She has a few more back home but she’s never had many. They are exclusively for these occasions.

Eren glances at her with a smile. Jean’s slightly less casual. 

“Hey, Jean, you dropped something.” Ymir frowns towards the ground.

“Oh, shit, what?”

She reaches out and puts a finger under his jaw, pushing it back closed. “Ah, there it is.”

“Fuck off,” Jean shoves, even as his cheeks go red.

“Ready?” Marco asks, stepping up behind them.

Jean looks over his shoulder. Marco smiles. Jean’s cheeks go a little more crimson and he turns away. “Yeah, right, let’s sit down already.”

The lights start flashing and suddenly the crowd is much easier to navigate. They go with the flow, moving towards the doors, which finally open up in front of them, letting the theatre unfold.

It always takes Armin’s breath away.

The balconies stretch four stories high towards the great domed ceiling that’s arrayed with constellations and supported by statues of gods and other creatures. The boxes and railings glitter gold and austere, red seats bold and brazen all facing the massive concealed space of the stage.

It’s beautiful, really, truly, beautiful. And _huge_. He remembers the first time they all saw it after they were accepted into the academy, how real everything had suddenly felt, how they thought they were kings of the world, masters of circumstance. And now… well, that’s almost true. This isn’t just the temple embodiment of a remarkable institution any longer, it’s _theirs_. No longer just something to simply to admire, it’s something to support and build, something to honor.

They get to their seats (floor, center) without too much trouble. Eren is practically jumping out of his skin next to him. All the rest of them are twisting their heads back and forth, taking in the scene in their own ways.

Mikasa squeezes past Armin so she can sit right between him and Eren. Jean looks a little morose about it, but settles down next to Marco quickly enough. The Russians file in to the row in front of them an Armin’s quietly grateful that neither Reiner nor Bertholdt decide not to sit directly in front of him. 

Armin’s chest is already light with excitement. He’s seen the show before, more than any other show if he's being honest. When they were younger it was a yearly occurrence. The first time they went was on a whim, some tickets Eren’s father had gotten from a patient. It had changed everything.

Eren had been transfixed. Armin was sure at the time he hadn’t blinked once and spent the entire month afterwards trying to replicate the moves, the costumes, the grace, which is a little challenging for a seven year old. But his parents took the hint and signed him up for classes on his eighth birthday. Of course Mikasa had gone along with him. And of course Armin had gone along with them.

They didn’t live near a theatre, so with a few exceptions, Christmas was the show they went to. Every year, they would drive down all together with Eren’s parents, spend the night in the city and go to this exact theatre to see the Nutcracker. At first the performances all seemed very similar, except for the costumes and sometimes the dancers, but as he got older other things became clear, the slight adjustments in choreography, those subtle shifts towards the goal of a flawless classical production. 

Tonight he was sure would be interesting in an entirely different way. They’ve never seen Levi dance this particular role. Over their time at the theatre they’d seen him in a variety of shows and parts, but somehow never managed to make it to the pre-Christmas show before now.

Armin turns his eyes back towards the crowd, scanning over the audience. It’s an interesting turn out. The boxes are filled with older patrons, mostly people over seventy, and looking around the crowd he’s surprised they makeup the overall demographic. There’s of course a few families with children, giving him a quick glimpse into his own past. Several seats are filled by middle-aged men who look like they’re preparing themselves for boredom, beautiful women at least ten years younger at their sides. They’re men who are there because they think that’s what they’re supposed to do, taking steps in a role. They’re not there for the love of it. 

Armin can’t help frowning as he takes it all in. He remembers an article in the Times arts section four months ago questioning the longevity of the Ballet. He’d been one of only a few in the school to read it. Most of his peers are like Eren: so shocked and thrilled to be there in the first place that they don’t consider wether or not it’s going to mean a livelihood five or ten years from now. That’s what happens with pressure, it shuts down the brain so it can only focus on the immediate.

But sitting here now, he suddenly sees quite clearly what the problem is. The average age of the audience is high. Those with the most capital are only there because they feel it’s a social responsibility. The parents with children aren’t there for the dance but the tradition. Looking over the audience he thinks he and his peers are the only ones in attendance older than ten and younger than forty. And what’s more troubling, the faces aren’t full of excitement and anticipation but acceptance and patience.

They aren’t here for the art. They’re here for the title, the assumption, the cliche.

Armin’s eye suddenly catches on a figure standing out from the rest of them. It's the director. His eyes are focused with calm enthusiasm and expectance on the stage, hands folded in his lap where he’s seated alone in his booth. Strange. This is far from the first show, Armin’s a little surprised to see him. He wouldn’t have expected him to see all the shows by any means. Maybe he feels like he has to have the passion for the performance his audience obviously lacks…

Armin can’t help hearing his voice again, firm and questioning from behind the long table during the auditions, “you did your choreography. And Ms. Ackerman’s, and Mr. Jaeger’s?”

He’d nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“You know that normally those routines would cost around 2K a pop,” Madame Zoe had said leaning over the counter curiously.

“Three thousand,” he’d said without thinking. “… At least that’s what I would charge if I was charging.”

Levi had snorted behind the table, one corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

They’d nodded, polite, thanked him. That’s the last he’d heard. 

Honestly, it had been a bit of a shock to see his name on that list. He didn’t lie to himself about his talent, especially surrounded by what he was. Mikasa had immense natural skill, the kind that comes once or twice in a generation. And Eren, well some people said that tenacity was the most important trait in ballet and he had tenacity coming of his ears. Not to mention the rest of them…

He’d been surprised. And now he can’t help but wonder what he should expect when they officially walk in the door and join the company.

The lights dim once, twice and then drop. Eren’s applauding like crazy next to him and Annie turns slightly to glare but he doesn’t seem to care.

The curtain lifts and the show begins.

It’s a lovely start. The production values are impressive, sets and the costumes are all excellent. Petra Rael does a brilliant job capturing the wonder and innocence of Clara. She’s an expressive dancer, but Armin can’t help noticing that technique is really her strong point. The dance that was designed is executed flawlessly, her form and lines are excellent, but the dance doesn’t have that miraculous quality it has with some dancers. With some the techniques the movements settle into their limbs like words on a page and then the dancer speak them with something altogether unique. It brings the dance a flavor and a life that takes the artistry to the next level.

When Levi ultimately emerges on the stage the difference is abundantly clear.

The entire audience echoes with applause on his entry. Armin’s seen him dance before, many, many times. He’s been dancing leads for almost ten years which is incredible on it’s own, and has given them over twenty seasons to enjoy. And every time, every single time, Armin’s left breathless.

It a skill that Armin’s convinced comes once in a century. Levi doesn’t dance, he flies. His body hardly seems to work at all, even though it’s apparent enough by his build that it is working very hard indeed. He doesn’t seem to take jumps, it’s as if he simply lifts into the air, and somehow gravity seems to have an entirely new set of laws for Levi Laurent. His jumps are higher, his landings are softer, his spins are faster, everything coming together to create an experience that truly feels like witnessing a unique work of art. Only this art is finite, fleeting, existing only in this moment for this audience. 

That’s one of the things Armin grew to love the most about ballet: mortality. Other art forms can last and live. Paintings can hang long after their creators are dead and buried, symphonies can be performed again and again into the future, films and sculptures and even fashion can hold a life of it’s own. But ballet, ballet exists for a brief shining moment, striving to touch something ethereal, something impossible, and then it’s gone. There’s something truly mortal about that, just as mortal as the art it’s self: pushing the boundaries of what we are given to the point of collapse and making that stretch seem effortless. 

By the time the show is over Armin’s flushed and speechless, which is a shade better than Eren who can’t seem to remember how to lower his voice and doesn’t stop loudly remembering every single move that crossed the stage. Especially Levi’s.

“Pretty good celebration, huh?” Marco says as they push their way out with the rest of the crowd, pulling their coats close before hitting the cold.

“Awesome,” Jean beams, “awesome celebration.”

“It’s amazing, every single time, I leave and I still can’t believe he can move like that,” Krista says into her scarf.

“Right!?” Eren yells.

“Eren, jesus christ, don’t piddle,” Ymir says.

“Alright, come,” Reiner insists, urging them all forward from the back, “we’ve got to get plenty of sleep tonight.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Jean returns. Reiner cuffs the back of his head. “Hey—!”

“He’s right,” Marco says, “bright and early.”

They finally hit the doors, pushing their way out. The cold shoves into them, breath stealing and refreshing.

“First day,” Sasha says, “I wonder what it’s going to be like.”

“Amazing,” Eren says, looking up at the sky above them with a massive smile still on his face.

“Ball busting,” Connie notes.

“Memorable,” Mikasa says quietly.

Armin smiles into his scarf, snuggling down into the warmth and walking a little tighter between his friends. Funny. In the winter and the cold, the city doesn’t really smell like anything except snow.

 

The next morning is frantic. Everyone’s up at least an hour earlier then necessary, scrambling for bathrooms and breakfast and everything else, all eager excitement and raised voices. Thankfully since there wasn’t a new class coming for a few months they got to keep their rooms, but it’s going to be time to move out soon enough, and now that their salaries are finally locked down they can all start looking. He’s already started keeping an eye out, in the city it was always insane house hunting, and he’s almost sure he found one that will work for the three of them when the time comes in a month or so.

They’re all out the door earlier than they need to be, and get to the theater and dressed a full thirty minutes before they have to be. But when they hurry into the rehearsal hall they’re not the first.

Director Smith is standing at the front, speaking closely to Madame Zoe and someone else Armin’s pretty sure is Master Oluo Bozado, the Ballet Master for the theater. He recognizes that ridiculous hair swoop and smug expression from the brochures and promos. They all turn as soon as they see the group and stop hesitantly at the door.

“Come on, come on,” Madame Zoe ushers, sweeping her arm inside the room in invitation, her messy bun falling to one side.

They file in quietly, standing neatly against the wall.

“Jesus… do they always look that terrified?” Bozado asks her over his shoulder.

She kicks his leg.

“Welcome,” the Director says, ignoring them both, and taking a step forward. His posture is flawless, appearance immaculate. “I wanted to make sure we got a chance to say congratulations on your first day. You’ve all worked very hard and are very deserving of these prestigious contracts.”

Armin can almost feel Eren beaming next to him.

“That being said, I wish to have a sincere relationship with this company and it’s dancers and see no reason to let you continue under any disillusion.”

A few of them shift uncomfortably. Armin hears Sasha swallow next to him.

“This is not a strong year for this theatre. Quite frankly the past several have been far less than desirable.” He passes his eyes over each of them. “Some of you may be wondering why so many of you were selected this year.”

He had, even if the others hadn’t. It was a full 50% increase from the previous year, an unheard of adjustment to the hiring numbers.

“The plain truth of the matter is that we’ve had a good number of dancers join new theaters in the past two months.”

“Traitors,” Bozado mutters.

The director gives him a look. Bozado crosses his arms and leans back against the barre with a new set of quieter discontented sounds.

“Our numbers have been diminished, and I feel quite fortunate to have found such a promising class in our time of need. It’s an opportunity I do not intend to squander. As you know we will begin the selections for the spring season soon enough. We will be keeping an eye on you until then, and if you work hard there’s a fair chance you will be placed well for the season. It is a unique opportunity created by a unique time in our history.”

Armin’s pretty sure he hears Eren catch his breath.

“Until then, I encourage you to become familiar with the theatre. I’m sure you’ll meet much of the staff in the next few weeks. I leave you with the capable Master Oluo Bozado who will run you through your daily routines.”

“ ‘Capable’,” Bozado snorts. “Generous.”

The Director turns, leaving the room without saying another word, and the class shifts, adjusting uncomfortably where they’re standing.

“Alright, alright, enough rousing pep talks, I want everyone on a barre, so let’s go,” the Ballet Master calls, clapping his hands sharply and sending them all hurrying into position.

Armin feels a hand on his arm and stops, turning to see Madame Zoe leaning in close. “I want you to stay here until three, then come to my office. Understand?” She says, peering down over here glasses.

“Yes, Madame Zoe,” Armin answers.

She gives him a cockeyed smile. “Hanji, please.”

He nods again and then she’s gone, her bun bobbing as she heads out the door. Armin hurries and finds a place on the barre before anyone can get a chance to ask him questions.

As it turns out, “ball-busting” is a bit of an understatement. Of course the first day of practice has to set a standard but it seems like Master Bozado is dedicated to pushing each of them until he can see their individual breaking points. The entire experience was made significantly more nerve-wracking by the fact that Master Bozado directs class from an armchair that he’d pulled into the rehearsal hall, lounging back in it with his feet dangling over one arm. He’d been leaning back, hardly seeming to pay attention, and then right at your elbow correcting your feet or clicking his tongue at your extension. Armin’s pretty sure he heard Jean squeak the second time he materialized behind him to snap at his turn-out. 

Armin’s exhausted by the time three o’clock rolls around. He’s half afraid that if he moves off the barre he’ll get a kick in the back of the knees, but Bozado doesn’t even seem to notice. He steps quietly out of the room, and everyone else seems too busy keeping themselves standing to notice.

He finds Madame Zoe’s office easily enough in the main body of the theater near the other higher ranking members of the staff’s. There’s an aggressively labelled poster of a human body on the door, complete with a new and slightly disturbed cartoon face.

He knocks. The door swings open, unhinged.

“Arlert!” She pulls her head up from her desk. “Come on, come on!”

He pushes his way inside carefully, forcing a smile. The office looks like a tornado of post-its just barreled through. It’s covered in papers and posters, notes and journals. There’s books on almost every surface and a record playing on a dusty turntable a back shelf. Giselle. Act Two.

She kicks the chair opposite her desk out with a foot. “Come on, don’t be shy.”

He picks up the pile of books occupying it and carefully puts them down on the floor before sitting down. 

She leans on her elbow and watches him, free hand twirling a pencil around her thumb.

It’s quiet for longer than he’s totally comfortable with.

“Um… Madame Zoe?”

“Hanji,” She corrects instantly

“Hanji, right, sorry. I just… was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

She continues to stare, peering through her glasses. The rims are greenish, tortoiseshell. “What do you think I want to talk to you about.”

Armin adjusts his weight in the chair. “The choreography.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“You asked me about it. Specifically.”

She smiles. “What else?”

“Well,” he swallows, “I think…”

She smiles, “Yes?”

He holds her stare. “I think that I have much more to offer the company as a choreographer than as a dancer. I think that’s why I was accepted. I think you and the director see that value.”

“Just so,” She says, leaning back in her seat and steepling her fingers. “Is that an arrangement that works for you?”

He can’t help letting a small smile spread across his face. “Of course. It’s an honor.”

She grins, “Good.”

She pushes herself a little further back, letting her eyes trace over the walls and all they contain. “You know, in many ways being a choreography can be far more demanding than being a dancer. Dancers express their art, they tune their bodies like an instrument, understand their form. But as a choreographer, a _true_ choreographer has to do all of that and more. We have to understand bodies and motion. We have to take something as raw and clinical as anatomy and push art through it’s veins. We have to take history and tradition, all the years of a dance that have come before and temper it until it’s something novel, something inspired.”

She snaps forward again, landing elbows first on the desk in front of her.

“How does that sound Armin Arlert?”

He can feel his breath catching in his chest. “That sounds like something it would be a privileged to work towards.”

She smiles. “Good.”

She drops a folder down on her desk, packed tight with papers. “Now, you will not stop classes, or rehearsals, but you will spend every day you are here with me from three until nine. Is that clear.”

He nods quickly.

“You can take a break to fuel yourself, but it’s been a while since I had something promising to work with, and like the Director says, no opportunities squandered. Long hours, hard work, but I’d like to get you to a place where your talents can be truly utilized.”

“Like an apprenticeship?” Armin asks.

She grins. “Exactly. An apprenticeship.”

He looks down at the folder on the desk with a smile. “Starting now?”

She pushes the folder towards him. “Starting now.”

 

As it turns out, three to nine is more like three to ten, and ten somehow turns into eleven. Hanji told him to head home when he slipped off his hand and almost smashed his head on the desk for the third time. But all in all, even through his half conscious brain, he’s pretty sure it’s been one of the best days of his life.

They spent the first few hours going through Hanji’s _incredible_ records. She told him she’d spent the past ten years historically reconstructing classical productions. He’s never seen anything like it, and could have easily spent all night going through the constructions, but there’s plenty of time for that. He has to keep reminding himself this isn’t some insane fluke that will vanish when he wakes up. There is tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that.

The hallways are dark now, only lit by a few yellow overheads. Each office he passes by is dark, doors shut, all silence. 

He hurries down the echoing stairs towards the dressing rooms to get the rest of his things and make his way back to the dorms. He stops at the bottom. There’s music coming from somewhere. It’s quiet, distant, probably one of the rehearsal rooms. 

Armin stops. Someone’s there late, rehearsing far more than they should. Alone, obsessive…

He sighs, maybe he can convince Eren to leave before midnight. He hurries down the empty hall, the music becoming clearer all the way. Funny, it’s a pas deux piece. Why would Eren be practicing alone for that when he could be working on a solo? Maybe he convinced Mikasa to stay late as well…

There’s only one light on, one of the smaller rooms. The door’s open a few inches. He steps up, reaches out to push it open and… stops. It’s not Eren.

It’s definitely not Eren.

There’s a figure in the middle of the floor, dark hair, slight. Armin’s not sure at first who it is because it looks like Levi from this angle but he’s taller than he should be and that’s when he realizes.

He’s on point.

It takes him a minute to actually believe it but when Levi starts moving across the floor it’s undeniable. He’s dancing, in point shoes. Well. Very, _very_ well. 

Armin’d heard that sometimes men tried dancing on point, there were even a few accounts of dances done in that style publicly, but it was unusual to say the least. When Mikasa had started on point he and Eren had given it a try as kids, and failed horribly. Eren had tried so hard he’d almost broken his ankle and Mikasa had forbidden him from trying again. Armin had snuck a pair of her shoes out of curiosity after their first year at the academy and failed just as terribly. It was Eren’s force and weight that had him failing, where with Armin it was the control and the poise he couldn’t muster.

For a man to dance well on pointe would mean a combination of ideal form, training, and poise, something he wasn’t sure was possible to combine seamlessly with the power and control of a male dancer. But here, watching Levi, it was seamless. 

He made it look so natural, floating and flying with even greater form than he had on stage the night before. It flowed, like water, perfect. Beautiful. Unbelievably beautiful, and Armin finds himself so struck standing there, that it takes him a moment to realize Levi isn’t dancing alone. 

The music swells and another dancer steps up, seamlessly executing the lift and sweeping him back down again. 

It’s the director.

Armin takes a step back from the door. He has the suddenly feel this is _definitely_ not something he should be watching.

But, it’s so beautiful, and he can’t seem to look away. They move, back and forth, pulling away from each other and coming together. The director lifts, and Levi has such complete trust that it’s as if his partner is an extension of himself. No, that’s no right, it’s as if they’re both extensions of the same thing, the same living moment that is the dance. 

The steps are as sure as the notes of the song, the closeness, the emotion. Their faces hardly move, holding stoic and firm, but their bodies carry the emotion of the piece without any need of aid. They’ve done this before, it’s quite apparent. But even so, he’s seen dancers who have filled these roles together for years, and never seen something with quite this harmony.

The song slides, ebbs, folds into it’s conclusion. 

The studio’s suddenly quiet, so quiet that Armin’s instantly far too aware of his own breathing behind the few inches of open door.

The pair holds their final stance, the director’s hand around his partner’s waist, Levi’s back to him, posture firm facing the mirrors in front of them. Their chests are moving up and down with a decent speed but it’s the only real sign of their exertion, the sound of breathing barely touches the stillness. The director’s hand slips, turning Levi around to face him, pushing his hair out of his face smoothly. 

Levi swats his hand away and slides his arms around the director’s shoulders, rising up on his points, tilting his chin, and sinking closer—

Armin turns away instantly, cheeks feeling like they’re on fire. He walks away from the room as quickly and quietly as is humanly possible.


	3. Chapter 3

Jean’s trashed. Totally, and completely trashed. His neck won’t even let him turn enough to see the door. His legs feel like they’ve been pulled carefully but firmly through a meat grinder and, to top it off, he’s 90% sure the toenail that’s been threatening to fall off finally succumbed to the sweet song of death half an hour before the end of practice and is now waiting for him to find it inside his shoes. 

Behind him he hears Reiner groan as he tries to get his leg properly stretched out. Bertholdt leans against his back to push it further and Reiner makes a sound like he might actually die. 

“Excellent!” Eren’s beaming by the mirrors. Jean’s going to have to thrown something at him. Maybe the toenail. 

“Jesus christ Eren, are you seriously feeling _good_ after that?” Connie grumbles where he’s collapsed on the floor, legs up on the wall behind him.

“I’m sore as hell, but come on, that was an _amazing_ practice!”

Definitely the toenail.

“You know you can’t kiss ass when Olou isn’t in the room,” Jean says.

“Fuck off Kirstein, and take a shower or something,” Eren says. “You don’t want to go to season closing looking like Rocky screwed a pony.”

“Har, har.” He must be fucking tired, he can’t even summon the energy for a decent comeback.

“I can’t remember the last time we got worked so hard,” Marco groans. He collapses in the chair behind Jean and Jean can just feel his foot come to rest behind him, two inches back maybe. If he leaned backwards, the space between his shoulders would probably come to rest right on Marco’s knee the way he’s sitting. “You think the girls are in this much pain?”

“I guarantee they’re not whining as much as we are,” Reiner says.

“Do you think they’re making considerations?” Connie asks. “The master and Madame Zoe I mean.”

“They’re always making considerations,” Bertholdt says. He twists Reiner’s shoulders until his spine cracks. 

Reiner sighs, leaning back on the counter and rolling his shoulders. “All the people we need to impress are in the room.”

“Not the director,” Marco notes.

“Not today at least,” Connie says. “Hey, where’s Armin?”

“Hanji’s lair probably.” Jean groans leaning back on the floor. 

“It’s Madame Zoe.” Eren snaps.

“According to her, it’s not.” Jean shoots back.

“It’s pretty amazing she’s teaching him…” Connie says, staring up at his feet where they’re pointed off the wall.

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in that office.” Jean says, “I heard she keeps the feet of old dancers on display.”

“Skeleton feet.” Marco smiles.

“Still.”

“You’re just jealous,” Eren sniffs, pulling jeans up and shoving his things in his bag.

Jean laughs. “Yeah, jealous. That’s right. Trust me, notice is the last thing I want here.”

“Come on Jean,” Bertholdt says, “we all want notice.”

“Not me,” Jean affirms. He sits up to pull socks over his aching feet. “And I don’t get why anyone would.”

“What do you mean?” Connie asks, bending his neck back to look at him.

“Danseurs, Primas, that’s the best way to burn out quick and loose a career quicker,” Jean says. “Sure you get paid well, but for how long? The spotlights always on, the pressure’s always there. There’s more people hoping you’ll fail than those who hope you’ll succeed. Notoriety never ends well. Your career fades around you, younger dancers pray you break your ankles, reviewers smash any little misstep you make. There’s no point to being great, it never ends well. Mediocrity is paradise.”

“That’s not true,” Eren says, “look at Levi, look at the director.”

“What about them?” Jean asks, standing and dragging on his hoodie. “Levi’s a fucking miracle and that just makes critics so desperate to find a flaw they pull stuff out of thin air. Did you see the Times call his performance ‘wooden’? It was the fucking Nutcracker.”

“Erwin Smith was great. And he still is,” Reiner says firmly.

“Yeah and that’s a job I really want,” Jean snorts, “figuring out how to make money and art at the same time with an audience that’s almost the walking dead.”

“If you hate it so much why are you here?” Eren grumbles. Of course. It wouldn’t be Eren if he didn’t make everything as dramatic as possible.

“I’m glad I’m here,” Jean says. “I love my job, which is why I want to keep it. So I’ll take the nice calm supporting roles and the dances that don’t try to break my shins in half, thanks very much.”

He tosses his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door before Eren can start blubbering or worse, yelling. Marco’s behind him, as usual, and Jean holds the door long enough for him to get out. He doesn’t say anything and they head back together, side by side through the halls out into the cold and the orange light of the city at night.

He can’t believe they actually have to go to a party after this. He’d skip it if it wasn’t one of the most important events of the year, not to mention their first one as members of the company. Season closing is always something to celebrate, even if this season had been no more successful than the last. But it was a chance for the administrators to serve caviar to the sponsors and make them feel like they were actually paying for something elegant and austere. Jean was actually looking forward to one aspect of the night, it would be their first chance to mingle with the head of the theatre, the illusive Dot Pixis.

Erwin Smith might run the artistic side of the productions, but it was Pixis’ theater and had been since the seventies. He was one of the landmarks of ballet, lodged in the stone as firmly as the building of the theatre itself. He’d been the one to direct the shows that brought in some of the more prized sponsors, and when he first became the head of the totem pole, Erwin Smith was the biggest thing on the East Coast and Levi Laurent was quickly becoming the biggest thing… well… anywhere. And now, well, it’s been a while since those golden days. But that's definitely not Jean’s problem. He’s just ready to get through this night, make nice with the man in charge, and collapse into bed.

He hits the shower as soon as they get back, before the others can show up and hog all the stalls. By the time he’s heading back to their room, rubbing the wet out of his hair Marco’s half dressed, fiddling with the bottoms of his suit pants.

“Did you shower?” Jean asks.

“What? Oh, yeah.”

“That was fast.” Jean frowns, tossing the towel up on his bunk.

“Not especially, I just don’t take forever like you do,” Marco says.

Jean watches him fiddle with his cuffs. He’s not looking at him.

“What’s up?” Jean asks.

Marco doesn’t answer. Apparently there’s a stitch or something out of place by his ankle that needs altogether too much attention.

“Are you pissed at me or something?” Jean presses. “Did I mess up the sweater drawer again?”

“No,” Marco sighs, lifting his head up finally, “I just, I don’t understand why you have to be so determined to be mediocre at everything.”

“I’m not,” Jean says, “I’m actually pretty damn good, I just don’t want to be ‘the best’!”

“But you could be, you know that right?” Marco says. He looks up at him, eyes firm and unyielding.

“I really don’t,” Jean says, turning away to find his dress clothes in the disaster zone of their closet.

“Well, it’s true, wether you know it or not. You have a skill that people kill themselves over and I just, I wish you wouldn’t undersell it, or shove it off like it’s better to be less than you can be.”

“I want a job, what’s wrong with that?” Jean throws some jeans out of the way, finding their ties.

“Nothing I guess,” Marco sighs.

Jean hears him standing, moving over to their mirror to sort out his tie.

“Where’s this coming from?” Jean asks.

“Nowhere,” Marco says behind him. “Well… no, it’s always bugged me I guess.”

Jean looks back at the closet. Perfect timing. Oh well, he might as well try. Who knows and they’re running out of time. Dorms close next week.

“Does it bug you enough to not want to be roommates anymore?”

“What? No!” Marco turns very quickly, “I mean no, no of course not. I’m not moving out.”

“No even to a two bedroom ten blocks from the theater?” Marco’s staring now and Jean can’t help feeling a little nervous. “If that’s not… I sort of just assumed, I mean we’re supposed to be out of here within the next couple of weeks so…”

“You found an apartment?” Marco’s still standing in front of the mirror, tie only half done up.

“Yeah,” Jean’s face is heating up for no good reason, “I just saw an ad in that coffee place by the park and I went for it.”

“You didn’t want me to come look at it with you?”

And shit this isn’t going well. “No I did, I just, I don’t know. I thought… it might be a nice surprise?” And god that’s stupid because he’s his friend, his roommate, not the type of person he’s supposed to get weird assuming surprises for that are a good deal too important to not ask about.

“Jean… we’ve been living together for three years.” Marco says. Jean swallows trying to summon the will to brush it off, to pretend it doesn’t matter.He doesn’t need to borrow his socks when he runs out of his own, or rely on him being able to fix his cowlick on especially horrible days, or fall asleep to the sound of him breathing, steady, constant, and just loud enough to hear.

Marco’s smiles. “Of course I want to move in, I can’t believe you found a place so close!”

Jean grins back and steps forward so quickly to hug him he doesn’t realize until he’s there already it’s what he meant to do. He makes sure to give him a good slap on the back just to make sure it’s a proper dude hug and then steps back, trying not to look at how hard Marco’s smiling because it’s making his stomach feel tight when it shouldn’t.

“We can move at the end of the week if we want to,” Jean says, stepping back to a safe distance and pulling on his own dress shirt.

“Great! We can get the others to help us, unless they’re too busy moving into their own places.”

“If we ask them to help we’ll have to help them,” Jean says. “Anyways, I feel like my legs hate me enough already. The last thing I need is to fall down a flight of stairs and wind up with Jaeger’s couch caving in my chest.”

“Fuck…” Marco mumbles.

Jean looks over his shoulder. Marco’s fiddling with his bow tie. And of course it’s a bow tie, one he’s apparently incapable of managing . Jean steps over before he can think too hard about words like “couple” and “married” and “old” in whatever order. 

He takes the thing away from him, maneuvering it quickly, but maybe not as quickly as he could because it’s a little harder doing this from the front than he thought it would be.

“Thanks,” Marco murmurs.

“Don’t you have any normal ties?”

“I like this one.”

Jean realizes he’s smiling. 

“I wonder what Mikasa’s gonna wear tonight.” He says quickly.

Marco shrugs. “She looks beautiful in anything, everything.”

Yeah, she seriously does. “I hope it’s the red one.”

“Black.”

“Huh?” Jean looks up at him. Since when does he have a freckle above his right eyebrow. Maybe Jean should ask him to go to a dermatologist just to be safe… even if it looks perfectly normal, small, spattered like the rest of them.

“Mikasa,” Marco says. Jean comes back to reality. 

“What about her?”

Marco smiles. “She’ll wear black.”

 

Turns out he’s right. The crowd filling the ballroom is all shifting dresses and black suits, waiters moving back and forth through the sponsors, dancers, staff, all with ease, trays aloft covered in long stemmed champagne glasses or flaky delicate appetizers. Scattered through it Jean can see the occasional person they know: Sasha’s by the bar with Connie, eyeing every tray that passes. Annie’s near the center of the room, alone, sculptural, watching everyone that passes with chilled indifference. 

“Miserable?” A voice asks behind him. Jean turns, Reiner’s evaluating the room. He somehow looks even bigger in formal wear than in rehearsal, shoulders broad and tight under the jacket.

“Oh yeah, completely,” Jean lies. The truth is he’s having way more fun than he should be. There’s just something about drinking out of a champagne glass and snacking on caviar surrounded by people with more money than god that’s more enjoyable than it should be. It feels… shiny. Nice and shiny, and he can’t help leaning back into the opulence and basking, just a little.

“Annie hates it,” Reiner says, glancing towards where she stands dauntless in the center, nodding as people try to talk to her.

“She hates everything,” Jean says.

“ _Especially_ this. She says it’s all bullshit, egos and money. A waste.”

“She’s probably right.”

“Strange isn’t it,” Reiner says, “things that are supposed to stand apart from everything else, art, all that, needing things like this so badly.”

Jean hums. Of course they do. Well, actually, the truth is they don’t. They could dance on the street and it would be just as beautiful, the art just as true, but it’s the spectacle that draws attention, not art that draws appreciation, and spectacle costs.

“I don’t know,” Jean says, “I think _he’s_ taking the misery prize home tonight,” he tilts his head across the room where Levi is standing surrounded by people looking like he’s trying to will his body to evaporate into the air.

Erwin is standing next to him like some ten million dollar Gucci campaign. His hair’s pushed back, suit perfect, posture immaculate. He’s listening to the people surrounding them with polite interest, nodding his head slightly every once in a while, small smile on his face, saying a quiet word or two when appropriate. 

Levi leans back against the table behind them, his own suit is just as sharp but more petulant, more couture on the edges than Erwin’s. His hair cuts jaggedly across his face, darkened eyes glaring at everything in the room that moves. Jean suddenly has the district impression of some haughty russian princess, up on her throne, disdaining any cruder hands that might try to get close enough to touch her. Levi’s close to the director, as if he’s trying to hide in his shadow from anyone who could possibly want to speak to him.

“Have you seen Eren?” Reiner grins.

“Yeah, I think he might actually combust.” Jean sips his champagne. 

“Armin and Mikasa can diffuse him.”

“I think they’re already trapped in the blast radius.”

Suddenly all around them the slightly tinkling of glasses comes to life. Throughout the room people are turning towards the the twisting staircase at the front of the room, with expectant smiles and eager eyes.

“Ah, showtime,” Jean says. He glances across the ballroom. He can see Eren and the other two close together, turning towards the stairs. Behind them Marco’s standing with Krista and Ymir. Marco catches his eye for a moment, grinning as if he knows Jean’s having a good time despite himself. 

“Thank you,” comes a voice from the front. 

Jean turns. There’s an older man standing alone on the fifth step of the stairs. He’s dressed simple but sharply. He’s bald, but has a small well maintained grey mustache just curling up on the sides of his nose. He has the kind sharp eyes that one gets with librarians, helpful, patience, calm, but far _far_ smarter than you so don’t even try to think otherwise.

“Thank you, for helping us celebrate the closing of this magnificent fall season,” Pixus says, raising his glass to the crowd. “And congratulations to all involved in it’s conception and execution.”

There’s a polite demur “cheer” from the crowd, in-between sipping delicately from their glasses through pursed lips.

“I’d like to give a particular thank you to our ever stolid artistic director,” Pixus continues, turning his eyes in the direction of Erwin Smith across the room, “and the star that lights our stage, Levi Laurent. Together you have made this yet another season to remember in the history of this great institution.”

Levi’s expression doesn’t flinch as the crowd raises glasses in their direction. Erwin bows his head respectfully, turning his glass back towards Pixus.

The crowd shifts back towards the man at the front of the room but Jean can’t help keeping his attention on the other two. As soon as the attention is turned, Erwin leans down, whispering something in Levi’s ear. Levi doesn’t move but Jean’s almost positive that his cheeks go a little redder than before. When Erwin rights himself again he’s wearing an almost smug expression. Also, Jean can’t see one of his hands, must be on the bar behind them both. Must be. Probably…

“I’d also like to extend a welcome to the newest members of our theatre, who are in attendance tonight,” Pixus continues at the front.

The crowd around them applauds and Jean feels Reiner’s posture straighten behind him. Across the room Eren looks like his face is actually going to shatter into sunshine. But hell, maybe he’s smiling pretty wide himself. They worked hard, harder than kids probably should be allowed to. They’ve extended and twisted their bodies until they’re as stretched as the canvas they represent, and now, well, they’ve earned this.

“Now,” the old man with the gleaming eyes continues, “I’m not hear to give a speech, I’m not very good at them. I’m here to run a ballet theater, and that’s something I’m far better suited to. But I would like to thank those of you who are here tonight. It has been a year of changes and challenging adjustment. I know that the past several have seen many trials for all of us and that has made some consider their own ability to support institutions such as this. But you are here, and without your support none of what we do would be possible. So, from the bottom of my heart, I truly thank you.”

The old man brings his hands together and the rest join in. Across the room Jean sees Erwin elbow Levi in the ribs. The shorter man rolls his eyes and joins in with a severe lack of enthusiasm. 

“I hope that with your continued support, the talent of our existing staff, and promising newcomers, we can make the spring season _truly_ something that will remind the world why Titén Theatre holds it’s ground as _the_ institution for this ever changing, ever evolving, organism of art. Thank you.”

He tilted his glass once more to the delicate applause of the crowd, stepped off the stage and merged with it once more.

“Well, that was interesting.” Jean turns, Bertholdt’s stepped up behind them. Reiner makes a gruff noise of agreement.

“Seriously,” Jean agrees.

“‘Ever-changing’, ‘ever-evolving’, that doesn’t sound too terribly classical,” Bert says.

“Sure it does,” Reiner says, “it is always changing, it has to, that’s nothing new.”

“I don’t know,” Jean says, “something about that sounded different.”

He looks out across the floor. Erwin and Levi are quickly being surrounded again, only now it looks like their audience is asking a few more questions than before. Erwin’s shaking his head politely, giving small shrugs and simple smiles. Levi’s draining what Jean thinks is his third scotch, or at least something auburn in a short heavy bottom glass. 

Oh well, it doesn’t matter. He’s here, and he might as well enjoy himself. The buzz of the glamor and the words of the speech welcoming him, them, to this world, are still bouncing around under his skin and he can’t help feeling a little high off of it all. 

He moves through the crowd, slipping between his friends. Ymir and Krista are following the crab-cake tray, Krista not even trying to hide the excitement about the evening. She’s shining, all smiles and bright eyes. Ymir’s still dripping sarcasm, knitted together smirks and eye-rolls and grumbling criticisms, but even under all of that there’s something that lights up when she watches Krista talk about the food and the elegance and the speech, all that’s yet to come.

Connie and Sasha are just as bad, trying to name as many of the sponsors as they can where they’re sniping appetizers. Jean knows a few of them himself, the ones who appear more often than not on the art’s page or have names on various parts of the theater. But there’s many he doesn’t know, although he doubts he has to, they’ll likely be dead before he’s a major part of the theatre. But hey, then again, maybe he never has to learn all their names. Looking over at Levi again it certainly seems like he couldn’t give less of a shit who was ultimately paying his salary. Jean’s not exactly sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

Marco finds him eventually, shifting through the crowd with a grin and the energy of the event bouncing around his eyes. “Come on, Mikasa and the other two are talking to Pixus.”

“What?” Jean stares, “Seriously?”

“Yes! Seriously. Let’s get over there!”

“And what?” Jean stares as Marco gets a hand around his arm and starts to pull him through the ocean of dresses and suits. “Just bust into their conversation?”

“Just say, ‘hello’,” Marco insists. “We can say hello to our friends, and meet the man upstairs as the same time. Come on, there’s nothing to worry about. He’ll be excited to meet you.”

“What?!” Jean insists, trying to step backwards, “Why _‘me’_ specifically?!”

“You’re one of the best of the year Jean, did you not see the placement sheet? I’m sure they’re noticing you.”

“They definitely are not. Not with Mikasa in our year.”

“Quite being a baby.” They push past one group of older women and suddenly they’re there.

He was right. It is Pixus. Jean’s surprised for a moment because he hadn’t quite imagined him being short but he was almost the same size as Armin. He was standing between Armin and Mikasa, Eren was next to her, looking at him like he was Poseidon walking the earth. 

“Armin,” Marco smiles, approaching from that side and dragging Jean along with him.

“Oh, hey!” Armin smiles. “Sir, this is Marco Bodt and Jean Kirkshien, they’re new additions as well.”

“Ah, yes, I remember the names from the new contract sheets.” Pixus smiles.

 _Yeah right_ , Jean can’t help thinking. He extends a hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Sir.”

“Nonsense,” Pixus says, with a voice that seems to say, yes, I absolutely do deserve that, but I’ve gotten pretty good at modesty these days and I’m going to say what’s expected.

“Truly, sir,” Marco insists with his own handshake.

Pixus gives a practiced smile. “I was just speaking to Miss. Ackerman, Mr. Jaeger, and Mr. Arlert here about the fall season. What are you’re thoughts? Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much,” Marco beamed, “we all were at the Nutcracker last week.”

“Mm, of course.” Pixus returns. 

“The execution was flawless.” Jean says.

“But expected.” Pixus shrugs. Marco frowns next to him. Armin is watching the old man carefully.

“I disagree,” Mikasa says suddenly.

Pixus turns to her, small eyes shining.

“With respect, sir,” she continues, “Nothing is expected with Levi Laurent involved.”

Pixus chuckles, “That is quite true, Miss. Ackerman, I stand corrected.”

“It’s an incredible honor to dance in the same company with him,” Eren chimes in.

“Well, I’ve heard quite impressive things about all of you. Who’s to say you won’t be on stage with Levi within a few months.”

Eren let’s out a uniquely ugly laugh, going bright red half a second later. Jean can’t help grinning into his tie.

“I mean,” Eren tries to recover, “he’s just… we’ll he’s, it’s different.”

“He’s very talented,” Pixus says.

“ _Talented_ ,” Eren starts with wide eyes, “that doesn’t even start to describe it!”

Pixus raises and eyebrow.

“I mean—!” Eren backpedals frantically, “he’s, it’s, _incredible!_ ”

“His form on stage is amazing,” Marco tries to help.

“Yeah! But not just on stage,” Eren continues, off in a world of his own.

“Eren-“ Mikasa starts quietly.

“No, no, seriously! I mean stage is one thing, but the fact that he can dance so well, _on point_ —!”

“Eren!” Armin snaps.

“Wait, what?” Jean suddenly catches. “What did you say?”

“Levi,” Eren beams, “he can dance en point!”

Pixus is watching Eren very carefully. His expression has suddenly changed, moving from something accepting and mildly amused to so sharply attentive it’s actually unsettling.

Marco’s staring. “Are you serious?”

“Yes!” Eren beams, apparently unaware anything besides the glowing aura of majesty that is Levi Laurent. “And well, _really_ well, which, of course he would be great at it, I mean—”

“Eren!” Armin tries again.

“What?” Eren asks, all wide eyes and confusion.

And suddenly everyone’s looking at Armin. His cheeks heat up. “I… just—“

“Sir,” Mikasa says quietly, easing in front of the other two, “we’ve taken up plenty of your time.”

Pixus is still watching Eren and Armin with keen focus. “Nothing of the kind.” His voice is quieter. Detached.

“No, we couldn’t possibly,” Armin picks up quickly, “it’s been an honor to meet you, Sir. We wouldn’t want to keep you from the rest of the company.”

Eren’s eyebrows are drawing down concerned in that absurd way of his as he tries to sort out what he’s done wrong.

Mikasa smiles politely as Armin turns Eren around and the three of them move off. Jean can see Eren opening his mouth with confusion, probably something along the lines of “what did I do?” or “what’s the problem?” or something equally clueless. 

Jean and Marco are left behind. Marco’s mouth is still hanging open half an inch. Jean clears his throat, Marco shuts it.

“Um, well,” Marco tries.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Pixus says, giving them a polite smile before moving past them into the crowd. 

Jean’s still trying to fit everything together, watching as Pixus easily slides through the crowd. As he heads through a few elderly patrons reach out as if to speak to him but he doesn’t seem to notice. He pushes directly into the group surrounding Erwin and Levi near the stairs. With his back to the crowd he gives Erwin’s shoulder a short tug and the taller man leans to one side to hear him. He’s hardly listening a moment before Pixus turns, giving him a meaningful look and Erwin follows him quickly out of the room. Levi glances, watching them leave with the same permanent expression of bored distain. 

“Well…” Marco says.

“Well…” Jean agrees.

The rest of the event is significantly less interesting. Levi walking directly out of the room in the middle of one conversation was pretty amusing, but honestly he wasn’t paying attention to much of anything. Given Armin and Mikasa’s reaction, he and Marco seemed to both acknowledge that maybe they shouldn’t mention anything to anyone else, and suddenly all the other conversations became significantly less interesting.

 

The next morning Jean doesn’t get out of bed as quickly as usual. Instead he stares up at the ceiling above him, the same ceiling he’s had for the past three years. 

“You awake?” he asks.

“Mm?” Marco answers, voice filtering up from below.

“Are we going to get bunk-beds again?”

There’s the sound of someone rolling over, waking up a little more. “Um, I don’t think so. You said it’s two bedrooms. Right?”

“Right.” Jean nods to himself, eyes still gazing at the ceiling.

“… Do you want to get a bunk-bed?”

“No,” Jean says quickly. Maybe too quickly. “No, that would be stupid.”

“Right.” Marco mumbles.

There’s a knock at the door. Followed by another ten.

“Jesus!” Jean swears, sitting up, but Marco’s already across the room, opening it.

Connie’s there. “Come on, we have to go. They called an all staff meeting in the theater.”

“What?” Jean tosses his legs over the side of the bed. “When?”

“In twenty minutes,” Connie says.

“What!” 

Nineteen minutes later Jean and Marco are rushing through the theater doors with half their new colleagues in tow. Krista’s hair is sticking almost straight up on one side and Reiner only has his tank top on under his winter coat, but they made it.

Mikasa, Eren, Armin, and Annie are already there so they squeeze in next to them, trying not to stare too much at the rest of the staff surrounding them. Jean can’t help being surprised. He always knew that the theatre took a lot to run, but he’d never really put it together. Often times it just seemed like the dancers and the directors, the people he saw every day, but there were at least a hundred people filling the room. There was Mike Zacharias, the universally feared stage manager sitting next to Hanji and draining coffee at an incredible rate. Oluo was towards the front with a few of the other instructors and class runners. Levi and Petra were seated next to each other a few rows back. Petra was watching the stage anxiously, while Levi looked like he was still only half conscious, dark circles under his eyes a few shades deeper than normal, chin buried in his scarf like it was the closest he was getting to bed at the moment.

“Where’s the director?” Sasha leans over to ask.

“How the fuck would we know?” Ymir snaps back. Early on they had all learned to avoid Ymir until she’d been awake for at least an hour.

“Good morning,” came a voice from the stage.

Jean turns with the rest of them to see Dot Pixus standing in front of them with Erwin at his side. They both seem a little bleary, as if they haven’t slept much, but where Pixus is almost beaming through it, Erwin seems distant in a way that’s not familiar to any of them.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice,” Pixus announces clearly. “I’ve called you all together this morning to announce our spring production.”

The weary unease of the room suddenly lights into taunt excitement. Whispers shoot back and forth, Krista starts wiggling around in her seat, muttering something Ymir next to her. Jean glances around at the crowd. Only a few of them seem to be immune to the sudden rush of anticipation. Two seats down Armin seems concerned, brows furrowed in that concentrated way of his. Levi is watching the stage with sudden still but intense focus. He’s looking at Erwin. Erwin isn’t looking back.

“Now, before I speak further, I will tell you now, and tell you once: this production’s details must be kept in strictest confidence.”

The theatre stills respectfully, curiously.

“Normally we would announce the details for the press and our sponsors, but in this instance we are trying something new, we are trying something bold, and secrecy until the first performance will be paramount. Am I understood?”

There’s a murmur of acknowledgment from the crowd. Jean can’t help feeling the curiosity spark under his skin, the excitement building in his chest. 

“The main production for the spring will be Bournonville’s romantic: _La Slyphide_.”

Instantly the room’s excitement bursts, whispers becoming voices, staff members turning in their seats, leaning over to each other, talking quickly and enthusiastically.

It’s an interesting choice. Perfect for the theater’s classical standing as one of, if not the, oldest romantic ballets in existence, and the style focused more of subtly and control than bold and emotional displays. There is a strong emphasis in the Bournonville style of quick and impressive footwork while keeping everything else strong, pure, and simple. It’s a very un-American dance. The style’s rare in the states, and that makes the choice bold, impressive. Understandable. They can stand out in a way that will drawn attention. 

And all of that matters, but what Jean can’t help thinking, what he’s hearing all around him is, _James_. It’s the leading male role, a strong part that needs an equally strong dancer and already he can see Levi moving through the steps in his mind.

“Now,” Pixus begin again, instantly silencing the crowd. “We are going to try something different this year, something no one has done before.”

Attention peaks again. Armin is leaning forward in his seat, face more concerned then ever.

“Levi will be dancing the role of the Slyph.”

The theater goes silent. 

Jean stares. Armin looks like he wants to dissolve in his chair and melt onto the floor. Eren is gaping at the stage as unicorns have emerged from the floorboards.

Levi doesn’t move. He stays exactly where he is, arms crossed in front of his chest tightly, eyebrows lifted half an inch.

“Sorry, but,” Hanji suddenly calls from the front, “I assume I don’t need to remind you… the Slyph is a female role.”

“Yes, we are aware,” Pixus says.

“So that means…”

“Levi will dance the part en pointe, yes.”

The muttering shoots through the crowd, anxious whispers, shocked faces. Jean can’t seem to stop staring at the stage. 

Suddenly, Levi stands. 

The theatre goes silent. Jean can’t see from his angle who he’s looking at on the stage but based on the expression on Erwin’s face he has an idea.

Within two second Levi is headed directly out the doors of the theatre. At the front Erwin pinches the bridge of his nose and with a sigh jumps off the stage and hurries after him. They can just hear him calling out as the doors swing shut behind him.

Everyone turns back, silent.

Pixus seems to be the only one unmoved by the events. “The rest of the roles are as of yet undecided. We will be observing routines and practices next week and will post the choices for the remaining roles, including James, on that Friday.”

The crowd sits in silence, the information still filtering down over all of them.

Pixus smiles. “That’s all. Thank you.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a nice building. Actually, a very nice building. Armin had been worried at first that the doorman was going to turn him away, but the guy didn’t seem to notice him as he made his way to the elevators and slipped inside, pushing the little golden button for the 11th floor.

He’d had to press Hanji for almost half an hour to finally get her to give him the address, a challenge only increased by the fact that he couldn’t actually tell her why he needed it so badly. He couldn’t even put a finger on why that was himself. Maybe he was just ready to do anything to get rid of this sick feeling in his stomach. To just look him in the face and tell him the truth, tell him it was his fault, that he was the one who saw them and that he shouldn’t have said anything, but he did, and he was sorry, he’d do anything he could to fix it. He’d run the words through his mind a thousand times since he left the theater and they were almost perfect now. He just had to finish walking down the hall, knock on the door, and open his mouth. Easy. So easy. All he had to do now was not throw up before or in-between any of those very simple steps.

Two-hundred-forty-two Park Street. Eleventh floor. Apartment 1146. Two out of three steps to arrive, without sprinting back to the dorms, isn’t bad. Just one more.

Armin walks quickly past the sealed apartment doors, all shining paint and quiet elegance. He keeps up his pace, if he slows down now he’s not sure he’ll be capable of speeding up again. 

1130,1132,1134… There’s the sound of raised voices down the hall, behind one of the doors just ahead, muffled but almost audible. He swallows, crossing his arms tight in front of his chest and keeps walking.

“The theatre matters, no matter how much you seem to insist it doesn’t,” the lower voice says. “It matters.”

“It wasn’t for them,” the other voice comes back, so dead that it might seem calm under different circumstances. There was a weight to the quiet, an edge to it that wasn’t mistakable for anything less than livid. “It was never for them. And you knew that.”

1136,1138, 1140. Armin tries to turn off his hearing and fails miserably. The voices are getting clearer the closer he gets.

“It should be for them. I can’t keep it. I can’t have something that could save this theatre sealed away for myself. It deserves more; it’s so much more. It’s unfathomably selfish to keep something so beautiful from the world, from this institution.”

“That’s not your decision. It never even came fucking close to being your decision.“

1142, 1144— Armin’s heart is starting to thud in his chest. There’s no doubt where the voices are coming from now. A panic is starting to rise in his chest. What if this this was just another gigantic mistake? 

“You didn’t ask. You didn’t say one single word. I had to hear it in a room full of drooling jerk-offs and bratty puberty cases, with that ventriloquist fuck-buddy staring at my like I shit gold.”

1146\. Armin stares at the number. Giant mistake. Definitely a gigantic fucking mistake.

“No shitty excuses? No, ‘I tried your phone but you must have been passed out’, or ‘he threatened my contract’, or ‘I accidentally smashed my giant fucking head on a door-jam again and in my concussed state forgot how to not be an asshole’? Not even ‘I didn’t think it would matter’?”

“I knew it would matter. I knew how you’d react. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

There’s no answer. Then finally, “you trapped me.”

"I don't know if I'd say _trapped_ exactly…"

“You fucking trapped me.”

“Manipulated circumstances might be a more accurate—“

There’s a thick, meaty sound behind the door and a few stumbling steps. 

“Levi,” a muffled voice calls. “Wait—“ Small steps are moving quickly towards the door.

Mistake. Giant Mistake. He needs to go. Now. Armin turns to run.

Too late. The door opens. For a second he can’t remember how to breathe.

Levi walks right by him as if he didn’t even notice he was there, which is pretty impossible considering Armin’s frozen _directly_ in the doorway and he had to edge around him to get out in the first place. 

Armin watches him head down the hall, mostly because he’s too afraid to look at anything else. He’s carrying a suitcase, and there’s a duffle bag over one of his shoulders. He probably shouldn’t be noticing that the luggage set likely costs more than his first month’s rent.

“...Arlert?” a voice asks.

Fuck. 

Armin manages to turn. The director is standing in the door. He has a hand under his nose. It’s bleeding.

“I’m so, so, _so_ sorry,” Armin starts, “I didn’t mean to intrude I just… I had to tell you something.”

Erwin watches him levelly. “Is it important?”

“Yes, well… no,” Armin stammers, “I mean: yes. But I can come back—”

“Come in.” Erwin steps back from the door, opening the way.

Armin swallows. What are his options here? Insist on leaving? And then what? He came here and made this even more awkward for nothing? No. He started apologizing. He’s going to do it properly.

He walks into the apartment. Erwin shuts the door behind them. 

It’s as nice as he thought it would be. The floor plan is open, lofty. He can see that there’s an open second story, which is probably the bedroom, behind a half wall where it can look down into the living room. The furniture is simple. Elegant. One wall is entirely made of bookcases packed full, all organized and aligned. Another wall is nothing but large windows and the city spans out in front beautifully. South facing. During the day the light must pour in. He can’t see into the kitchen from here but he’s sure it’s perfect. Erwin Smith seems like the type of person who would have an abundance of stainless steel. 

All this would be fine, normal, comfortable, if it weren’t for a few distracting details. Like the couch shoved a bit out of place. And the small table laid out with an untouched dinner for two, complete with candles and flowers.

And the music. The music wasn’t helping.

_“Oh I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know why, I can’t get enough of your love baby—”_

Dinner. Barry White. Bleeding nose. He’s in over his head.

“Look, I really didn’t mean to intrude,” Armin starts again desperately, staring at the untouched small and perfectly seared filets at the table.

“There’s nothing to intrude on,” Erwin says, walking in behind him and pinching his nose. “Not now.”

“Oh god,” Armin groans.

“I said it’s not a problem.”

“No just… you’re bleeding on your shirt.”

Erwin sighs. “Ah.”

“Look, I really _really_ should go.”

“No,” Erwin says. “ Stay here. I wanted to speak with you tomorrow, but now works?”

Armin nods quietly. Erwin makes his way up to the second floor, switching the stereo a little more aggressively then was maybe necessary. Vivaldi springs to life, more what he was expecting. 

“Have you eaten?” Erwin’s voice calls from the second floor behind the half wall.

“Um, no.”

“Do you eat meat?”

Armin stares at the forgotten dinner warily. “Yes, but…”

“It’s getting cold. No sense in waste.”

Armin looks at the steak for a moment before approaching it carefully. He’s not sure why but he has the sneaking sense that if he actually sits down the chair will snap shut like a bear trap.

“Sit,” Erwin’s voice calls, heading down the stairs again in a simple gray v-neck tee. 

He has tissues stuck up his nose.

Armin look away and sits. Erwin goes into the kitchen and produces a bottle of wine. He uncorks it and doesn’t stop pouring. Armin sits quietly. The sound of Vivaldi and pouring wine is the only noise for a few of the more awkward moments of his life. 

Eventually Erwin stops and promptly empties half of the glass.

“You still have your coat on,” he notes.

“I’m fine,” Armin says a little too quickly.

Erwin shrugs. It’s a strange gesture on him. Out of place. Armin imagines if he was wearing an oversized jersey and a backwards trucker cap it might have a similar effect.

Erwin sits, taking another generous sip of wine and picking up his utensils. Armin puts his napkin on his lap. Erwin doesn’t. 

“Now, what did you want to talk to be about?”

“I…” What the hell was it? His brain is out panicking in a field somewhere and he has to try herding it back back into it’s proper state. “It’s all my fault,” he blurts out. And that’s apparently as well as he’s going to do.

Erwin lowers his fork. “What do you mean?”

“I saw you. And um, Levi. Dancing.”

Erwin watches him carefully. “I see.”

“I didn’t mean to spy or snoop, I just followed the music after hours and I thought it was Eren staying too late again, and then it was you, and I didn’t mean to it was just so… beautiful. And it’s my fault. It’s my fault Pixus found out and it’s my fault that…” Armin trails, looking down at the plate in front of him and then at Erwin’s bloody nose.

“I understand,” Erwin says. It’s strange how composed he can still look with bloody tissues sticking out of his nose.

“And I wanted to tell you I’m sorry,” Armin continues, “for that, and any trouble it’s caused.”

Erwin nods, focusing on his meat. “You told Pixus?”

Armin hesitates. “Yes. In a manner of speaking.”

“In a manner of speaking?”

He considers lying. But no. Omitting is always better. 

“I told two other people… and one of them might have _accidentally_ told Pixus.”

Erwin looks at him. “What else did you tell them?” 

“What else?”

Erwin leans back in his seat, placing his knife down on the side of his plate. “This institution has a long and classically founded history. This means that many of our more powerful and prominent sponsors tend to have more conservative values. And since it appears that your friends are less discreet then you would wish them to be, I feel I have to ask: what else did you tell them?”

“Nothing,” Armin says instantly. “I didn’t see anything else.”

Erwin raises an eyebrow. Armin can feel his cheeks heating up.

“… Barely anything else,” He mutters.

“So you are sure that there won’t be any other surprises for me to navigate?”

“None from me,” Armin says.

Erwin smiles, just a flicker. 

“Your steak’s getting cold.”

Armin looks down at it. It somehow looks better than it did a few minutes ago. He picks up his utensils. 

“You said you wanted to ask me about something?” Armin remembers.

“Hm?” Erwin finishes off his first glass and starts filling it up again instantly. “Oh yes, what do you think about the selection?”

“What, the show? Or the casting?”

“Mm, one and the same aren’t they?”

Armin nods. “They are.”

“So, what do you think?”

“It’s good.” Armin says, “Very good. Genius actually. Honestly, it’s one of the best decisions the theater has made in a long time. I mean—“ He tries to catch himself. “Not that this season wasn’t good, it’s just—”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Erwin watches him levelly. “Why is it ‘genius’?”

Armin’s not sure his brain has completely caught up with these circumstances yet. If a month ago he’d known he might be sitting at a table with Erwin Smith, trying to eat steak and ignore the bloody tissues stuck up his nose while they discussed the details of an upcoming production because his star danseur punched him in the face … well, it sounded more like some drunk dream after a night watching too many Almodovar movies. 

But he’s here now. There’s no way he’s letting the chance slip away.

“It’s the most classical of ballets doing something completely revolutionary. The contrast is a beautiful statement. The steps and the dance can be kept the same since La Sylphide has significantly fewer lifts than any other ballet you might have selected. It’s about distance and longing much more than passion. It’s about loss and confusion and stretching outside of societal limitations. That’s a theme that has always stood as a romantic staple, but can easily fit into the image of an untraditional representation of sexuality.”

Erwin watches him carefully, sipping every now and again on his wine.

“But,” Armin frowns, “if you’re concerned about the conservative status of the sponsors then why—”

“Do something unorthodox?” Erwin finishes. “I’m sure the answer’s clear enough.”

Armin takes another bite of steak and thinks. “The sponsors won’t know. They can’t know. It’s a secret. And when the show opens you’ll have a whole new audience to fill the spots they empty.”

“At least that’s the goal.”

“It’s a way to open the theater, to bring in a new audience that’s there for the show and not just for the tradition.”

Erwin nods. “Pixus and myself are not blind to the challenges the theater faces, in fact we’re more aware of them than anyone. Each year we loose our sponsors to age and thinning purses and we are doing nothing to bring in new interest. We need something shocking. We need something truly beautiful.”

Armin pushes his steak gently with his knife, watching the sauce cool around it . “Will you get it?”

Erwin sighs, leaning back in his seat. “Levi will dance. He has to. The entire theater has heard now and that’s what he wanted to avoid. Now that the bandaid has been torn off he has little choice.”

Armin sits quietly. For a moment there’s nothing but Vivaldi.

“I’m sorry that I forced a situation,” he says, “but, if you don’t mind me saying, I think you made the right choice.”

Erwin says nothing. He’s watching his wine swirl around his glass.

“Something had to happen,” Armin says quietly. “The theater has to go on. It’s the best way to save it. Maybe the only way.”

“Then you shouldn’t be sorry.” 

“Yeah… well,” Armin looks down at his plate.

“What do you think about James?” Erwin asks suddenly.

Armin looks up, focusing again. “There’s something about him in all of us, isn’t there? He has a life, one that he should be happy with. He has a fiancé and a family and a future that’s comfortable and what everyone else tells him he should love. And then the Sylph appears: beautiful, impossible, etherial. And he touches something beyond. Something that shouldn’t be real. He touches a possibility, a dream, and suddenly everything else crumbles away. Nothing else matters.”

Erwin watches him, blue eyes clear, sharp.

“James wants there to be more. He strives. He reaches even when he can’t touch. That’s who James is: someone who will always reach, even if it means he’s destined to fall. Because that doesn’t matter. The dream is too great. He’ll stretch and break and crumble. But still reach. Always.”

“I suppose we all have our Sylphs,” Erwin says with a sip.

“Even dancers.”

Erwin smiles, “especially dancers.”

 

It’s only half way through practice and Eren’s sweating so much Armin’s starting to become legitimately concerned. He’s going to have to force feed him gatorade when it’s all over and follow up with enough pasta to bloat Rome when they get home.

They’re all dancing hard. The pressure’s high, it’s been high all week. They’ve been starting early and staying late, pushing harder over each practice and every session. Hanji had circled through a few times today, and Ulou was keeping a sharp eye on everyone’s form and movements. The Director had passed through once, slowly, just as he had with other practices. Armin had avoided looking at him, but it wasn’t hard to notice that he still had a cut on the side of his nose and looked as if he’d gotten even less sleep than usual.

But he was gone now, Hanji too, and when Ulou finally called the end of practice Armin couldn’t help sighing for Eren’s sake. He looked like he was near collapse, most of his hair soaked with sweat, but hardly any of them looked better off. Even Reiner was breathing hard and Jean couldn’t avoid looking less than casual as he winced with each step towards the showers.

Eren’s normally a ball of pure energy after rehearsals, but when he meets Mikasa and Armin in the hall outside the changing rooms he’s as broody and distracted as he has been since the infamous event.

“Eren, you have to be more careful,” Mikasa scolds. “I saw your ankle on that turn, you could have hurt yourself.”

“I didn’t,” he says simply, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. 

“Eren,” Armin tries for what feels like the tenth time this week, “you have to let it go.”

Eren says nothing, frowning even harder and heading towards the door that much faster.

“It’s not your fault, it was an accident,” Armin tries.

“It was stupid,” Eren says flatly. “Everyone knew it wasn’t something to talk about accept for me and now Levi hasn’t been in the theater for a week.”

Mikasa rolls her eyes. “He’s a diva.”

Eren stops, eyes flaring. “He is not a diva! He’s a dancer, and I messed up, alright?”

Mikasa ignores him, turning him easily back towards the door. There were few things harder to budge then Eren when he had his mind set on something. Armin remembered when they were little he’d been determined to get to the bottom of this “Santa Claus” issue. Armin and Mikasa had fallen asleep before midnight but he’d been up, fake rifle clutched in his hands, his stare deadlocked on the chimney until the truth revealed it’s self. He didn’t talk to his parents for an entire month after that night.

Armin runs his hands down his sides, doing the usual check before leaving the theater. Notebook, bag, shoes, phone… no phone. He comes to a stop.

“Shit.”

“What?” Mikasa asks, turning back to him.

“My phone, I must have left it in Hanji’s.”

“That’s alright,” she says, “we’ll go back with you. Right?” She asks Eren.

He doesn’t say anything, just tightens his grip on his duffel and turns, already heading towards Hanji’s office.

The theater’s a strange place after dark. For some reason it always reminds Armin of toys put away for the night. It’s dark and everything that’s normally bright and active is still and shadowed. There’s still sounds, flitting down hallways, only he’s not chasing down any of them tonight. He’s sure the director is camped out in one of those rooms somewhere, going through lists and lists with Hanji and the others, trying to make the casting decisions they’re all waiting for.

Armin isn’t helping with the casting. He’s gotten a few very specific questions from Hanji in the past couple of days, but nothing to give him any hints. He’s glad he’s not helping. He can’t imagine playing with the fate of his friends like that, especially with a show like this.

“Annie’s form was better today,” he tries, breaking the silence.

“It’s been excellent all week,” Mikasa says, “I swear, she only really turns it on when it counts.”

“It always counts,” Eren mutters.

“Olou had you doing the Effie steps this morning,” Armin says, glancing over towards Mikasa.

“We’re all doing the Effie steps,” she answers.

“You’re doing them the best,” Eren says plainly.

She was. She always was. No one could even try to put it otherwise.

“Do you like it?” Armin asks.

“What?”

“The part? Effie?”

Mikasa keeps her eyes on the darkened hallway ahead of them. “It’s alright. It’s a bit of an object of a role isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she isn’t really a person, is she? She’s a conflict. She’s just an object that represents one side of a question for James.”

“She’s not an object,” Eren starts.

“What do you think she is?” Armin asks.

“She’s nice.” Eren continues, “she’s just… she meets a nice guy, and he seems good, and she’s excited to be with him, and then he gets cold feet and she moves on. She doesn’t wait around for him to get over it. He’s distracted, so she says ‘fuck you then’. It’s kinda Beyonce really.”

Armin can’t help laughing again. Mikasa’s grinning into her scarf. “Beyonce?”

“Yeah,” Eren says, frown still set on his face. “Pretty much. You have to put a ring on it.”

Armin’s still grinning by the time he gets to Hanji’s office. There’s a little manilla envelope taped to the outside of the door with a drawing that’s either a Sylph flying away with a phone or some kind or robot goose. Armin opens up the envelope and takes out his phone. 

“Is that a… walkie-talkie stuck inside a chicken?” Eren says, tilting his head at the drawing.

“God knows,” Armin sighs. He pockets his phone. “Alright, let’s get back. I’m starved.”

“Wait,” Mikasa’s suddenly looking down the hall. She squints her eyes. Armin follows them. There’s a figure heading down the hallway away from them, a small figure in expensive looking boots with cropped dark hair pushed back.

Armin reaches out to try and catch Eren’s arm, but it’s too late, he’s already heading full speed down the hallway after Levi’s retreating silhouette.

“Hey!” Eren calls.

“Eren!” Armin tries to call out as he and Mikasa bolt after him. “Hold on, jesus!”

Mikasa’s rushing right next to him but Eren’s running full tilt now. Levi’s actually slowing. Images are already pouring through Armin’s head. If Erwin got a bloody nose out of the deal he wouldn’t be surprised if Eren ended up with his face driven into one of the walls. And what’s going to happen then? Mikasa will probably get into a fist fight with the star Danseur of the company and knock half his teeth out and maybe break something herself and, shit— 

“Levi, hey, hold up, hold up,” Eren staggers to a halt.

Levi’s stopped. His arms are crossed in front of his chest with that same blanket expression on his face. “Do I look like I’m not?”

Eren’s still trying to catch his breath as Armin and Mikasa come to a stop behind them. “No, I’m sorry, I just…”

“Eren,” Armin tries again firmly.

Eren ignores him. He stands up straighter with a deep breathe. “This is all my fault.”

The end of one of Levi’s eyebrows cocks upward. “Is that right?”

“Eren!” Mikasa says firmer. He doesn’t stop.

“I told Pixus about your dancing,” Eren blurts.

Armin holds his breath. 

Levi’s stare doesn’t flinch. He looks back at Eren with the same deadpan indifference, sparing one glance for Mikasa as she moves closer to Eren with tight fists and fixed eyes.

“You did?” Levi says finally.

“Yeah,” Eren swallows. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know it was a secret, I was just, I don’t know. I mean, I was a mistake, which is no excuse but, still, I just… It’s my fault. And I know messed up and I had to tell you.”

“Eren, you’re rambling,” Armin tries.

“I’m sorry alright,” Eren tries desperately, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cause the theatre harm. And the last thing, the absolute last thing I ever wanted was to upset you.”

Levi’s watching him carefully, arms still crossed in front of his chest. “Why?”

“Why what?” Eren stares.

“Why don’t you want to upset me?”

Eren opens his mouth. Then shuts it. Then frowns. “I just… you’re, you’ve always been such an inspiration! The last thing I could ever do is anything that would harm your dancing. It’s meant so much to me,” he glances to Armin and Mikasa, “to all of us. It’s… learning that you could dance like that, it’s amazing, it’s a gift, to everyone, and I didn’t mean to do harm, or cause conflict. All I ever wanted to do was dance in the same company as you, and now I’m here, and I messed it up so fast.”

Levi stares for a few moments. He looks at Mikasa. “He’s serious, isn’t he?”

She nods quietly. “Very.”

Levi leans back on his heels just a tad. “You know, most dancers in this company would have loved to have something like that on me. Most dancers would jizz themselves at the idea of having anything to help them get a foothold on what I have. They’d love for to me to crash and burn so they can dance over my ass into the spotlight themselves.”

“That’s unforgivable,” Eren says instantly.

Levi’s eyebrow raises. “Really?”

“You bring something miraculous to the stage. No one should ever try to take that away. And the fact that we get to share that, get to have a hand in making it shine even more… it’s a privilege. Truly.” Eren’s calmer now. He takes a deep breathe. “So, I apologize. Truly. And I hope I haven’t done anything to take away from the theater. Or hurt you.”

Levi holds his eyes for a solid moment. “Forget about it.” He says finally, and with easy steps leaves them alone in the hallway.

“Well,” Armin stares. “That went… well.”

“He didn’t even try to hit you,” Mikasa sounds a little disappointed.

“Alright,” Eren takes a deep breath, “we can go home now.”

 

Armin doesn’t get out of bed right away. He stays under the covers on the top bunk, looking idly up at the ceiling. They won’t be here much longer. Next week they’re moving into their new apartment. Mikasa found a pretty good one just a few blocks away. 

It will be weird living outside of the dorms. He’s gotten so used to the noise of life all around, used to carrying things out of the bathroom with him, and kicking the wall when Connie plays his music too loud. Even now he can hear Eren’s steady breathing from below him. He wonders how much he’ll miss that.

Eren’s sleeping hard down there. Thank god. He hadn’t slept properly since the end of season event. He’d almost paced a hole in their floor that night, and in the morning he’d apparently decided to turn all his frustration on himself, dancing hard enough to go through nine pairs of shoes that week alone. It really was a blessing that Levi showed up before Eren was able to do himself real harm. Last night he’d finally crashed properly. Luckily it was Sunday and he could let him sleep in till ten at least.

Armin’s phone buzzes on the edge of the bed. He ignores it.

It buzzes again. Underneath them he hears Eren’s phone buzz. It doesn’t stop.

Armin frowns, rolling over with a groan and reaching for the phone. He has five text messages, and an email. An email from the theatre.

He sits up quickly, tapping it open.

He reads it. 

He reads it again.

“Holy shit.”

Someone’s banging on their door. “HEY! Hey, open up!”

Armin reads it again.

Under him he hears Eren grumble unhappily as the noise starts to crumble sleep away.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR JAEGER!”

Armin looks up sharply. He jumps down to the floor as Eren starts to wake up properly, sitting up on his elbows with some pretty serious bed-head. Armin tugs the door open and instantly all five of them shove their way into the room. 

“Explain,” Jean says heading directly for Eren.

Eren squints, apparently still not sure if he’s dreaming. “Uh, what?”

“He means who’d you blow, Jaeger?” Reiner grins, pushing in after him.

“Like you can talk,” Marco says. “You’re on the top of the bill too!”

“I don’t… _what_?” Eren tries.

“James!” Connie says. “How’d you get the fucking part?”

Eren’s face empties. “What?”

“You got James, Eren,” Marco stares. “Fucking James! The lead role!”

Eren can’t seem to focus. He’s staring blankly back at them.

Armin’s still holding his phone. He looks at the email again. Why does he have to keep looking at it? Why does he have a hard time believing it? Probably because it’s so fucking unbelievable…

Behind them Mikasa suddenly shoves her way in. He can hear more people coming down the hall.

“Hey!” Reiner yells as she enters, “congrats!”

“Yeah Mikasa, Effie! A leading role first year in the company that’s—” Marco’s cut off as she pushes past him.

Eren’s still staring blankly on the bed but she doesn’t stop. She scoops her arms under his and picks him up, hugging him so tight he actually has to gasp for breath. She doesn’t let go, just holds him close, face buried in his shoulder, apparently not noticing that she’s holding him two or three inches off the ground. 

Eren’s eyes find Armin’s. “… Really?” He asks.

Armin swallows. He nods. 

Eren holds his stare for a second, maybe two, and then the smile explodes into his face. He shuts his eyes and hugs Mikasa back as hard as he can.


	5. Chapter 5

Eren’s managed to get most of his things packed up already. The posters are rolled and organized, all his clothes and shoes are packed up neatly in duffle bags and boxes. They don’t have any furniture so that makes it easier, well, for now. Once they move in they’ll have to find something to fill up their rooms with. They had a home now, not just a room but an actual apartment, and jobs to go along with it. Strange how quickly life happens once it gets started.

He sits back on the lower bunk, now just a bare mattress, looking around the hollow shell of their dorm room. Armin’s across the floor, diligently labeling and taping all their boxes so they can move them over to the apartment tomorrow. He’s humming something to himself. Eren’s too far away to hear exactly but he suspects it’s from Act 3. Armin’s been up past midnight with Hanji almost every day this past week, lining up all the steps and dances to organize for the rehearsals, which officially started in two days.

Eren watches him, a small frown on his face. It’s been a distracting week. He’s gone from elated to terrified at least ten times each day. One minute he’ll be spinning down the halls, practically singing, smile branded on his face, because he did it: he actually did it. He’s dreamed of something like this since he was six years old and now everything has fallen into place. But then he’ll think about the role. _Really_ think, and a suspicion will creep in. 

This is his first year in a company. He didn’t pretend he had the same talent that Mikasa did, or even Reiner, or Bertholdt. He was a good dancer, maybe even a great dancer, but he wasn’t an extraordinary dancer. Good dancers didn’t secure leading role their first year in a company, no matter what the circumstances. And when he remember that his stomach sunk, and his smile faded, and he was left sitting on a mattress staring at a bunch of boxes and wondering just what was happening to him.

“Armin?” He asks.

“Mmm?” Armin answers, scribbling “bathroom crap” with a Sharpie on the cardboard box between his knees. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Alright,” Eren swallows. “But I need you to promise that you will be totally honest with me.”

Armin looks up, big eyes wide. “Oh.”

“Can you do that?” Eren asks.

Armin looks back at the box for a moment in hesitation. He pushes it away, wrapping his knees under his body and facing Eren directly. “Of course. If that’s what you want.”

Eren wasn’t totally sure it was what he wanted. But he’s started now. He might as well finish. 

“Were you surprised? When I got the part I mean.”

Armin frowns, fiddling with one of the boxes. “Yes, I was. We all were.”

“Yeah, I know, but… I mean, obviously it’s a surprise. It’s a big deal. But were you… especially surprised?”

Armin looks down at his lap. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come on.” Eren sighs, “of course you do.”

Armin leans forward, elbows on his knees and looks at him. “Yes, I was very surprised.”

“You don’t think I should have gotten it.”

“I didn’t say that!” Armin says quickly, “It’s just… well no, I guess not. It’s not that I don’t think you _deserve_ it, or that you’ll do great with it. It’s just a very very prestigious role, and you’re still so new to this, we all are.”

“If you think that,” Eren says, the sick feeling in his stomach getting worse, "then they must too." He wasn’t surprised. He knew it himself. He was still just trying to hope maybe he was wrong…

“Who must?”

“Everyone. The other’s, the dancers, the director, everyone.”

“That’s not true Eren, they picked you for a reason,” Armin says.

“You just don’t know what it is,” Eren returns, maybe a little too harshly.

“There are plenty of reasons,” Armin counters. “The truth is Eren, you’re really good for the role.”

“You just said—“

“I said I was surprised, because you’re not as experienced. I didn’t say you weren’t good for the role. You’re great for it.”

Eren looks up, “Really?”

“Yes,” Armin says firmly. “It’s a role about pushing yourself to the brink of what’s possible for a dream. That’s very you Eren.”

“Yeah, and the whole idealistic spaz thing,” Jean says at the door.

“Private conversation,” Eren snaps as Jean walks in with Marco right behind him.

Jean holds up his hands defensively, “So shut the door. Jesus, we’re just seeing if you guys wanted to do dinner.”

“Are you moved out?” Armin asks them, standing up from the floor with a stretch. 

“Pretty much,” Marco says, “just getting the last of it tomorrow.”

“It’s a bit weird isn’t it?” Jean says.

“What?” Eren asks.

“Oh just, no more dorms. Real life, all that bullshit.”

“Yeah, we’re all really going to miss waiting twenty minutes in the bathroom each morning while you do your hair.” Eren rolls his eyes.

“Do you really want to be pointing figures Jaeger? We were missing a shower for a week after you attacked it.”

“The water went freezing! With no warning!”

“Yeah and ripping the shower head off really was the best solution.”

Eren crosses his arms in front of his chest. “It surprised me.”

“Of course it did.” 

“Hey, brats,” a voice calls from the door.

They all turn, and freeze. Levi is standing in their doorway. 

He looks like he just stepped off a runway, tall boots and dark pants, sharp jacket and a scarf slung across his shoulders. All black. Petra’s standing next to him with a smile on her face, also looking fantastic. She’s wearing a short gold dress, hair tossed artfully to one side, sharp darts on her eyeliner and boots that Eren’s almost sure are the exact same as Levi’s. Which maybe they were, he was small enough that he might be able to fit women’s sizes. The stage director was also behind them, Mike, looking considerably less fabulous but tall and good-looking enough to make up for it with a half beard and an easy smile.

“Come on,” Levi says in his bored tone. “We’re going out.”

No one answers him. They’re all still gaping at the newly glitzy doorway.

“What?” Jean manages finally.

“To celebrate!” Petra beams, “The casting choices, it’s all very exciting. A new show!”

“Right, but…” Marco tries.

“We’re going out. Drinks. Dancing. Get your shit. We’re leaving in ten minutes.” Levi finishes, turning back to the hall. “Come on, let’s herd up the rest.”

And then they’re gone.

The four of them stare at the empty door.

“Fuck…” Jean manages. “I’m going to have to unpack my hair gel.”

 

An hour later and Eren’s pushing forward with the rest of the group behind Levi and Petra into the club. the music is thudding all around them, the crowd pushing tight and wild. There was a short scuttle getting inside when a photographer jumped out in Levi’s face. Petra had just managed to get him inside without breaking the guy’s ribs. Eren was pretty sure Jean was still glowing from the brush with fame behind them.

“I can’t hear anything!” Krista yells, wincing at the sound.

“You’re not supposed to!” Ymir yells back, “Trust me, words totally spoil the packaging on most of these fucks.”

Annie’s clearing a path seamlessly. People just seem to melt out of her way as soon as they look at her, which may or may not have something to do with Bertholdt’s height and Reiner’s brawn filling in the space behind her.

Eren’s sticking close behind Levi and Petra as they move through the crowd. A bouncer shows them through to a VIP area towards the back, a nice table a bit off from all the noise but high enough up to have a good view of the club. 

“Wow!” Sasha stares, “I didn’t think places like this actually existed outside of movies.”

Levi’s glaring at the cushioned seats as if they contain at least ten unique strains of syphillus. “I’m getting a drink.” And with that he’s off to the bar.

Eren’s tempted to follow him, buy him a drink maybe. It’s the least he could do after all the grief he caused him. But he sits down instead, Mikasa sliding easily in next to him. Most of them are at the bar with Levi, ordering things and calling over each other. No one’s dancing yet but it’s probably just a matter of time. Armin’s not there with them. Eren wishes he was, but Hanji called out of nowhere with an “epiphany” and he’d had to go back to the theater. So now it was just him, Mikasa, and the veterans at the big empty table.

“So, congratulations!” Petra beams across from them. “You must be over the moon.”

Mikasa smiles back politely. “It’s an honor.”

“Yeah,” Eren manages.

“Pretty impressive turnout for some first years,” Mike says, slouching back in his seat and slinging and arm over Petra’s shoulder. “Who do we havvve…” he trails, “Big bulking Gurn,” he nods in Reiner’s direction where he’s heading towards the bar, “Lovely Effie”, Mikasa, “James of course,” he grins at Eren, “Equally lovely backup Effie,” he says in Annie’s direction, “And oh look, here comes backup Gurn, already endearing himself.”

Jean reaches the table and puts down six beers, one of which is instantly in Mike’s hand. Eren frowns as he takes one. He should have thoughts of that. Why did Jean always think of things like that first?

“Old Madge,” Jean smiles at Petra. She raises a beer to him with a smile. Jean smiles back, sloppily. Is he drunk already? “Although not so old, really, shame on you Eren, throwing such pretty ladies out of your house!”

Eren glares at him. “She’s a witch.”

Petra mocks a pout. “Aw, just a little.”

“Seriously though, I can’t believe you’re taking us out,” Jean continues blithely, scooting over so Marco can slide in next to him. He’s also looking a little wobbly.

“What do you mean?” Petra asks.

“Just not what you expect from the stories. Ballet theaters all that, the older - er, I mean, longer standing dancers hating the new ones for taking their roles and all that.”

“Shuuhhh,” Marco tries sloppily. 

“I don’t go in for that prima nonsense,” Petra says easily, taking another drain of her beer. “The theater is what’s important, the quality of the production. I’m happy to help that any way I can.”

“Wow,” Marco stares. “Seriously?”

Petra laughs, “Yes, seriously.”

“Well, you’re just awesome.” Marco beams at Petra, “Do you know that?”

“How drunk are you guys?” Eren glares.

“Levi got everyone tequila at the bar,” Jean says.

Dammit. He knew he should have gone up there.

“And you had…?” Mikasa trails.

“One or two,” Jean grins.

The rest of the group is close behind. Sasha and Connie are already in hysterics, Sasha still chewing on the lime from her shot. Ymir’s rolling her eyes at them and Krista’s staring around at the lights and the people. Levi follows up the rear, sliding in next to Petra, something pink and martini shaped in his fingers. 

“Thanks for the shots, man,” Reiner says, pushing forward.

Levi makes some indistinct noise of acknowledgment. 

“I want to dance.” Annie says, expression deadpan. She laces an arm between one of Reiner’s and one of Bertholdt’s and turns them towards the floor. Reiner just manages to grab a beer and grin back at them as they move off into the throbbing pace on the floor.

“How about it?” Ymir raises an eyebrow at Krista.

Krista looks up at her and smiles. “Yeah, why not.” She looks back at the others, “Anyone else?”

“Fuck yes,” Sasha grins, dragging Connie after her. Eren can’t help noticing that Ymir looks slightly disappointed but they all make their way off after the Russians anyways.

“You dancing?” Petra asks Levi.

Levi leans back, sipping his florescent booze. “No thanks. They hip-check like fucking hockey goons out there.”

“Oh, come on,” Petra smiles, “I’ve seen you dance lots of times when we go out.”

“Not until I’m too drunk to remember it,” Levi counters.

“I wish Erwin had balled the fuck up and come out with us,” Mike whines, reaching for another of Jean’s beers. Levi’s look darkens.

Jean laughs, “He comes out with you, seriously?”

“What’s so surprising about that?” Mike shoots back.

“He’s an old fucking fart is what,” Levi says.

“Holds his booze better than you,” Mike mutters into his beer and Petra can’t seem to help smiling.

“He’s only thirty-seven,” Marco tries. “That’s not old.”

“Yeah, well he dances like a stoned donkey to music like this anyways,” Levi says. “It’s embarrassing. Especially for the children.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Mike laughs.

Levi raises an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

“Uh, yeah!” Mike calls, “I remember the first time we all went out, what was it? Ten years ago? And Erwin had been finishing off those jello shots we didn’t want to let go bad in the apartment,” Jean snorts into his beer so hard he must have inhaled half of it. “And he wanted to go dancing and you had your panties in a bunch as usual. But we got to the club and he started dancing, and you didn’t let him get through one song before you dragged him off the floor,”

“Yeah. Because he dances like a stoned donkey.”

“You often drag stoned donkeys off the dance floor by their belts and then not answer your phone for the rest of the night?” Mike waggles.

“Mike,” Petra breaks in with a concerned look. 

“Fine, fine, whatever,” Mike huffs, leaning back into his beer. “I’m just saying, he hasn’t been out with us in years.”

“He’s too busy for that,” Levi says quietly. Eren looks at him, but he’s glaring off into space, sipping his drink calmly.

“He’s very dedicated,” Mikasa says, “It’s admirable.”

“Very,” Marco agrees.

Jean glances at Levi nervously and suddenly he’s standing. “Alright, I need at least one more shot, and this time they're on me, come on, who’s with me?”

As it turns out most of them are. 

Two hours later Eren may or may not have had a few too many tequilas, but that’s alright, because everyone else has _definitely_ had too many. Reiner is roaring something that might be lyrics but sounds closer to a dinosaur mating call, sandwiching Krista with Ymir. Eren’s not even sure that Krista’s actually standing on her own, in fact it looks like she’s a few inches off the ground supported by limbs on either side. Bertholdt is ineffectively trying to quiet Reiner’s yodeling while Connie and Sasha bounce him back and forth. Annie’s off at the bar with Mikasa, and from what he can blearily see they’re actually accumulating a nice pile of cash, taking shot after shot surrounded by guys with dumbstruck faces. Petra and Mike are cheering them on from behind, Mike seems to be raising the stakes, digging more bills out of his pockets and throwing them down.

It’s just Eren, Jean and Marco left at the booth. Eren’s doing a better job staying upright than they are. Marco’s completely collapsed into Jean’s shoulder, and Jean doesn’t seem to notice that he’s drooling on his leather jacket.

“Maybe,” Eren frowns, tilting his head in their direction, “Maybe he should go home?”

“Aw, he’s just fine,” Jean slurs, elbowing Marco’s side.

Marco groans, sliding off his shoulder and landing on the table forehead first. 

“Oh. Shit.” Jean stares. “Yeah... maybe home’s a good call.”

Jean groans, scooping an arm under Marco and lifting him off the table. He manages to get him standing, just. Marco starts laughing sloppily.

“What?” Jean asks.

“Reiner’s clean-jerking Krista.”

“What? Oh fuck, REINER! PUT HER DOWN! Not over your head, jesus christ!” And with that they’re gone. 

Eren stares numbly into the crowd, watching the lights dance around them, the swaying throng of people pushing back and forth. 

“I never said it.” A bored voice says across from him. Eren turns. Huh, he didn’t notice he’d sat back down.

Levi has an arm slung over the back of the seat, one leg crossed over the other. He’s watching the crowd.

“Never said what?” Eren manages. Things are still pretty blurry, but at least up in the booth he can almost hear properly.

“Congratulations,” Levi says.

Eren’s too drunk to stop himself from laughing.

“What’s funny?” Levi asks.

“That,” Eren gestures vaguely, “the whole things. The congratulations.”

“Not following.”

“I don’t deserve the part,” Eren says without thinking. His head’s still spinning from the booze and it’s all to easy just to let words slip right out. “Everyone knows it. I don’t know how I got it, or why, but no one thinks I should have it. I guess I don’t either...”

“You have it because I told them to give it to you,” Levi says.

Eren stops. “… What’s that?”

“I told them to cast you. For James.”

Jesus christ, just how drunk was he? He makes his head focus, leaning forward on his elbows to face him. “So you, I mean, … What?”

Levi’s still watching the crowd with that infinitely bored expression. He takes a sip of his drink. “I said I wouldn’t take my role unless they gave you James.”

Eren stares. “Um, why?”

“Because after that display the other day, I’m fairly convinced you’d break your own ankles before letting me get a paper cut.”

Eren let’s out one of his more awkward laughs. “That’s… I wouldn’t, I mean, well. That’s crazy, that’s what that is,” and probably a lot less hyperbolic than it should be.

“You sound like a seagull getting soundly fucked when you laugh like that, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” he blushes.

“Look,” Levi says, leaning forward suddenly. “I don’t want some bratty level-jumper kissing my balls only to stab my back the next minute. The roles I have now are the ones you all would have if I was out of the way. If someone’s going to be picking me up, I don’t want butterfingers.”

“I won’t drop you,” Eren says instantly.

“You better fucking not.” Levi leans back again, taking another sip.

Eren feels like he should probably say something, but he’s not sure if it’s “thank you” or “fuck you”, and he’s far too drunk to properly decide which. So he doesn’t. And apparently Levi’s done talking too. They sit there, watching the other’s dance, and Eren doesn’t stop drinking until Mikasa makes her way back to the table. She eases him out of the seat and they walk home together through streets that still smell like snow, salt, and smoke. 

He almost remembers her carrying him most of the way. He almost remembers laughing, rambling, something about being lucky and useless all at once. He almost remember’s Mikasa calling Levi a pretentious little shit, but by the time he was shushing her she was helping him into his bed and Armin was making him drink a glass of water and the rest was all squishy darkness. 

 

“Alright!” Hanji claps her hands together from up on the stage. “First day of rehearsals! I’m going to skip the trust falls if everyone’s all right with that and get right into the messy stuff.”

The cast is spread out in the seats in front of her. They’ve all had about thirty-six hours to get over their hangovers and for the most part they’re put back together just in time to start actual rehearsal. Armin’s seated towards the front, holding all of the notes and tapping his feet eagerly on the floor. He keeps turning around to smile at them and Eren gives him a thumbs up. He’s feeling better than he was. The first few days of all this had been weird sure, but what it really comes down to is he’s been given an amazing opportunity. It’s like Petra said, it didn’t matter how or why, what mattered was that they were part of the company and it all came together into something worth working towards. He didn’t intend to let anyone down.

“Now, I like to start productions by making sure we’re all on the same page, so how about a little survey,” Hanji continues, setting a pace across the stage. “There’s pretty much two ways to see this ballet, so maybe we start with a vote. Who think’s James is a gigantic douche-bag?”

There’s an awkward pause and then a few hands go up. Jean’s is the first one in the air, stern and proud. Marco follows suit. Annie, Reiner, and Bertholdt’s hands aren’t far behind. Ymir’s lazily joins them. Sasha raises hers.

Hanji locks on her. “Blouse. Why do you think he’s a douche-bag?”

Sasha shrugs. “You shouldn’t chase random things into the woods alone. Everyone knows that.”

Hanji raises an eyebrow. “Alllllright. Leonhart, what about you?”

“He’s an idiot,” Annie says simply. 

“Care to elaborate?”

“He has a good life. He has friends, means, a fiancé he cares about. Something impossible appears out of nowhere, some glorious mystical perfect woman and he throws it all away to chase after her. He doesn’t even know if she’s real. He’s an idiot.”

“Don’t chase women that float,” Reiner adds.

“Or men,” Bertholdt corrects. 

“What use is ass if you can’t even hit it?” Ymir says.

“And he throws old ladies out of his house,” Marco notes.

Hanji nods along with the arguments. “Alright, alright. Now, who thinks that James is a tragic hero?”

Petra’s hand is the first in the air. Connie’s there too, along with Krista, Mikasa, and even Levi half heartedly throws a few fingers up. Armin’s right there with them.

“Springer, why’s he sympathetic?” Hanji asks.

“The sylph’s hot, ghost or not,” Connie says simply, “why not go after it?”

“Because it’s fucking impossible.” Jean rolls his eyes, “she has goddamn wings, Connie.”

“Who’s to say it’s impossible?” Mikasa says. The cast turns to her. “Who’s to say what’s real and what’s not? Is life worth living in constant regret? The fact that the sylph comes to him in the first place proves that he doesn’t really love Effie, and he knows that deep down. He doesn’t marry a woman he doesn’t love. He chases after a dream. There’s certainly heroism in that.”

“What about Madge, the old lady?” Marco asks, turning around to face her.

“She’s a witch,” Levi says simply. “She’s the real villain, not James.”

“How do you figure?” Reiner asks.

“She’s just fucking with him, all of them. She’s some crazy bat who only gets her rocks off wandering in from the moors and setting happiness on fire.” Levi continues, “she goes into this guy’s house, and he can tell she’s evil and probably smells like fart so he doesn’t want he hanging around. Fair enough. But she does, and to do what? Tell him that his best friend is going to marry his fiancé? Very nice.”

“Well, it’s true,” Jean notes. “And if he doesn’t love Effie really, why does he get so pissed about it?”

Levi looks at him, “Right… like if someone told you your boyfriend was going to be fucking someone else in five hours you wouldn’t want to smack them.”

“I’m not…” Jean starts awkwardly.

“Please,” Levi turns back, “That haircut screams cock-gobbler.”

“Anyways,” Hanji quickly redirects and Jean’s face goes scarlet.

“Anyways,” Levi continues, “If that wasn’t bad enough, once James leaves his pretty little home-town-girl and finds the awesome colony of naked ghost women out in the woods, who want to welcome him to party all night, this bitch shows up again, and says ‘hey, here put this shawl around your ghostly babe and it will all work out’ and when he does: it kills her. I don’t know why the fuck he would listen to the crazy old fart bag in the first place, anyways. He’s an idiot. But he’s not a douche-bag. Douche-bag implies intent.”

“And what about you Lenz?” Hanji asks.

Krista crosses her hands in her lap. “I just think it’s romantic.” Eren expects Ymir to roll her eyes but she doesn’t. “He sees something beautiful, he falls in love, and he chases that. It’s a dream, but it’s a beautiful one, and that’s worth chasing. And in the end, the only person he hurts is himself. Effie and Gurn are happy together, and he’s alone. It really is a tragic price to pay for reaching for the impossible.”

“Feudal,” Armin says.

“What’s that Arlert?” Hanji asks.

“It’s just an old ballet, and the themes are reflected in that. It punishes people who reach outside their designated course of life. It’s almost feudal in that sense, exacting retribution on those who strive for more. The moral at the end is that it’s impossible to touch the unfathomable, and if you try you’ll end up alone with nothing but the cold.”

Levi snorts. 

Hanji scoots her glasses back into place and taps her clipboard twice. “Jaeger.”

Eren looks up. “Yes?”

“You didn’t raise your hand,” Hanji notes.

“Oh.”

“So?”

“So, what?”

“So: what do you think? A-class douche-bag? Tragic hero? Serfdom analogy wrapped in the search for hot babes everywhere and anywhere?”

“I don’t know, honestly.” Eren frowns. He looks at the stage, watching as Hanji’s silk slip-ons ease over the boards with each step. “Is it better to be happy with what you have, to hold onto something that’s close and let it be enough? Or to believe in something more, something that’s less real, less warm but worth it, somehow?”

Hanji slants her eyes, peering over her glasses at him. “Well, you’d better figure it out. It’s your job to make people love him as much as he loves that dream.”

Eren swallows, nodding firmly. He would, even if he had to stay up every night, work harder than he ever had. He would. No matter what.

“Alright, now, rehearsal,” Hanji says, slapping her clipboard on her hand. “Arlert, you want to give them the rundown?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Armin swallows, standing nervously and shuffling his papers. “There’s going to be a few main groups to starts. We want to keep the production small. This is going to be about skill and letting that skill shine more than creating a spectacle.”

Petra nods approvingly where she’s seated.

“Hanji and I are going to be working with the Sylph and James, so that’s Levi and Eren. We’ll also be keeping Gurn and Effie. Those couples will want to be looking to each other and trying to represent different ends of a spectrum, so shared rehearsals will be important. That means we’ll also want Gurn here, so that’s Reiner, and Jean as the second. And of course Effie, so Mikasa, and Annie as her second.” 

Armin turns a page in his notebook, Eren can tell he’s focusing on the paper to try and avoid his nerves.

“Madge is going to be starting with some solo dances, and Olou will start walking the rest of you through the wedding guest sequences. Once we have our fundamentals down we’ll be switching it up, Levi and the other Sylphs will be going through their numbers and the humans will work on theirs, then we’ll all join back up for full runs all together.”

Hanji smiles at him before turning to the rest of the cast. “Sound good?”

There’s a general murmur of agreement. Eren grits his teeth against the nerves in his stomach. He’s forced his way through rehearsals since he was six, bit through auditions, and finally he’s here, in this audience, with the part of a lifetime. He can claw his way through this too.

“Alright,” Hanji grins, “Let’s get started.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so sorry it took so long to update! There will be a chapter just about every week from now on until the end of the story <3

Two weeks. It’s been two weeks, and Jean’s still not sure if it feels more like two hours or six years. He leans back against the wall, taking a deep sip off his water bottle and wiping his mouth. They’re still going at it, or at least trying to. He’s starting to wonder when Hanji’s going to mentally break something.

“Eren,” she tries, voice still patient but becoming more brittle each moment, “loosen, loosen.”

Jean’s pretty sure if she said that to a mountain face it would have a similar effect. Eren tightens his eyes, focusing on his steps with vicious concentration. Mikasa sighs against the wall next to him, leaning forward and staring at Eren as if she’s trying to adjust his attitude psychically. Reiner’s frowning on Jean’s other side, watching Eren’s feet attentively, and he can practically hear Annie rolling her eyes behind them.

“Alright, alright,” Hanji breaks in stopping them as the pianist’s playing falls away in the corner. Levi centers himself again, crossing his arms lightly in front of his chest. It’s a little weird to see him in rehearsal clothes, Jean’s only ever seen him arrayed in some perfect costume or swaggering around in street wear. He almost looks like one of them like this.

Eren stops, jaw tight and feet centering. He isn’t looking at Hanji or Levi. He’s having a hard time looking at much of anything besides the reflection of his own feet in the mirror filling one wall of the practice space.

“Maybe we should take it from the beginning again,” Hanji tries kindly. “Levi, go to your entrance please.”

Levi crosses the floor obediently, waiting off in one corner of the floor.

“Alright,” Hanji continues, stepping up to Eren. “Now, this isn’t the first time that you’ve seen the sylph, but it is the first time you dance together, so it’s a good place to starts.”

“I know,” Eren sighs angrily. “It’s what we’ve been doing all day.”

“And we’re going to do it for fifty more days, so let’s get used to it,” Hanji smiles.

Eren swallows nodding. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, we’re all working at this, okay?” She continues. “Now, when the sylph comes in this is the biggest moment of conflict for James. The conflict arises after the wedding party dances again, but the foundation for it is laid out here.”

“Between Effie and the Sylph,” Eren tries.

“Yes, it’s a back and forth: Sylph pursuing James, James pursuing the Sylph - James’ memories of Effie winning out, James’ desire for the Sylph overwhelming them.”

“Back and forth,” Eren repeats, focusing intently on the floor as if he’s burning the words into it. 

“But you have to loosen,” Hanji tries. “You’re so focused on your movements that you don’t seem involved in the scene at all. You have to let that go, it has to seem thoughtless, natural, flowing.”

Eren nods intensely. “Yes. Alright, yeah.”

Hanji takes a deep breath. “Okay, so let’s try it again.” She steps back, wafting a hand at the piano. 

The music starts flowing once more, notes filling the space around them.

“What do you think the others are up to right now?” Reiner asks quietly, leaning closer to him.

“Probably actually dancing,” Jean grumbles. He only half means it. This is important. They need to all be on the same page, the same level. But he can’t pretend it isn’t getting exhausting going through the same exact thing over and over again until he’s sure he’s never going to get any enjoyment out of this section of music ever again.

Eren centers in front of them, resting with his back to Levi, waiting. The notes swell and Levi enters, holding a perfect posture on his mark. Eren turns, hitting each mark exactly as he crosses the floor and falls into a kneel, reaching one hand out. They hold for a moment, then another, and as the music cues Levi moves across the floor, arms folded in, steps quick and soft, posture despairing. 

Jean had been skeptical at first over how well he’d carry something like this off. Levi seemed to take the world in as one uniform shade of thoroughly unimpressive grey, and Jean’d had a hard time imagining how he might be able to play off any kind of emotion on the stage. But here, moving through the steps, his blank expression weirdly worked. He looked empty, ghostly, sad in a way that he hadn’t expected, as if there were layers of gauze between him and the rest of the world, which was actually almost perfect.

Jean still wasn’t used to the way he moved. The first week he hadn’t done much else beside stare at his feet in those shoes, in all likelihood gaping like an idiot. Marco was practically livid with jealously. The rest of them were off going through the group dances, and they were all desperate to see Levi en point. He couldn’t blame them. It was astounding. Ever single day he was left stunned at the grace he managed to carry himself with, the ease with which he moved. Jean always imagined that point shoes would be a burden. He’d tried it once when he was still young enough to fit into the girl’s shoes. It had been clumsy as all hell and he’d felt like an idiot. His feet were his springs and to feel them weighed down and trapped like that had been strange and disquieting. But Levi… he moves like they’re part of him, like he’s done this for years, and hell, maybe he has.

Eren on the other hand… 

Levi moves across the space, steps slow, light, floating, and Eren moves after him, sending them into a series of retreats and pursuits, never touching, always close, but not connecting. Levi wafts away and Eren follows, and then Eren turns his back, focus shifting away, and Levi approaches him, slow, tentative.

It could work. Jean sees that easily enough. Eren’s so intensely focused on the _now_ , on the physical world, the actions of the dance. And Levi’s distant, as if it’s all moving through him without any effort at all. Water and rock. He could see that coming together, but Eren just can’t seem to get there. 

He looks like a dancer, a dancer trying _very_ hard not to fuck up. He doesn’t look like a character trying just as hard not to fuck up his life.

Levi’s hand wafts onto Eren’s shoulder and Eren turns, dropping to a kneel. Levi uses his shoulder as a light support, sur la pointe, the other leg lifting impossibly high and impossibly straight. Jean stares, still, even after weeks of this. He can’t help it, he’s never seen extension like that on anyone, not even Mikasa.

Eren swallows and then moves to his feet again, guiding Levi into a neat and easy spin. He catches his hips and lifts him.

“Alright, alright,” Hanji breaks it again.

Eren puts him down very quickly. 

“Eren,” Hanji sighs, looking him firmly in the eyes. “He’s supposed to be a lover, not a bomb.”

“What?” Eren splutters.

“You look terrified!” Hanji says. “He’s not going to break! You should look… well, okay maybe a _little_ terrified, but not like that.”

“I don’t understand,” Eren frowns.

“He’s nervous,” Mikasa suddenly calls from the wall.

Eren swallows, frowning at his feet. Hanji turns to her and then back to him. “Well… that’s not out of character but there has to be some element of exhilaration here, otherwise what’s the point?”

Mikasa glares in Levi’s direction.“Maybe he wouldn’t be terrified if he didn’t feel so much pressure.” 

Levi shrugs. “What? I don’t want him to drop me. Do you want to end up on your ass?”

“No,” Mikasa says instantly. “But I know he won’t drop me, and that’s all that matters. I trust him.”

“Yeah well, what can I say, I just met the kid.”

“He’s not a ‘kid’,” Mikasa snaps. “He’s your peer, your coworker, and right now he’s your partner.”

“Mikasa,” Eren tries, cheeks red, frown solid.

“Alright,” Hanji breaks in, “that’s enough.” She sighs, taking off her glasses and cleaning them on her scarf. “The lifting aside, you’re still not in the scene Eren.”

“I’m standing right here,” Eren says.

Hanji smiles at him kindly. “I know, and that’s exactly what’s challenging. You shouldn’t be here. You’re not dancing with Levi in a rehearsal room. You’re discovering the Sylph out in the Scottish highlands.”

Eren swallows, brow furrowing with concentration as he nods silently.

“Tell you what,” Hanji tries. “Let’s practice on the stage tomorrow.”

Eren looks up in surprise.

“Alright,” Reiner grins.

“I think it will help,” Hanji says. “You haven’t danced on the stage since your auditions. It will be a good way for you to feel like you’re really a part of the company now, and maybe dancing there, in front of the seats, with the boards under you, will help get that performance energy flowing.”

“We’re done?” Levi asks.

“Yeah, let’s call it a day,” Hanji sighs, stretching her back.

“I can stay later,” Eren says suddenly. “I can stay as late as you want. I want to get it right.”

“Jesus,” Levi swears, already walking across the floor towards his bag.

“I know,” Hanji smiles, supportive but exhausted. “But we all need sleep Eren, and you can’t force these things. You have to accept that.”

Mikasa’s moving over towards him with her bag over her shoulder.

Jean stretches as he stands. Reiner’s doing a few last stretches next to him. “See you tomorrow then?”

“Seems so,” Reiner says, Annie’s already waiting for him by the door.

“What’re you up to?” Jean asks. “Sticking around?”

“For a bit.”

“You know, you haven’t seen our new place yet. You guys should come check it out.” 

“Yeah, we should.” Reiner smiles. Annie taps her foot impatiently. “We’ll see how the night goes, huh? I’ll let you know.”

“Hey,” Jean smiles throwing a hand up. “No pressure. We don’t have any furniture anyways, just that couch we found on the road that Marco’s too afraid to sit on.”

Reiner chuckles. “Tempting.”

Jean tosses his bag over his shoulder, walking towards the door. “Well, text me if it’s too much to resist.”

Reiner waves after him, gathering up his own stuff and following Annie out.

Jean checks his phone when he’s out of the room. Marco’s home already, they got out of their rehearsal an hour ago. Jean can’t help smiling at the phone, the text glowing lightly in the dark of the theatre halls.

_MARCO_   
_I’m at home. Making noodles. We need toilet paper._

Home. That should be weirder than it was. 

He wondered sometimes if they tossed that word around as easily in other languages. The dorm room had been “home” even though it was never really theirs, and now they had the apartment, and the word really seemed to slide into place exactly right. Even though they had no furniture, and had just managed to get enough kitchen supplies to make pasta (which he was starting to worry would remain their only means of sustenance). 

But it was nice, and strange in ways. Like toilet paper. They’d never needed to buy toilet paper before. Or paper towels, or dish soap. Maybe that’s what it meant to be an adult: toilet paper and dish soap. Then maybe even a table to eat the noodles at.

He headed for the dressing room showers. They might have their own place now but that came hand in hand with utilities bills and he’d always been a sucker for long showers. He liked the quiet, or rather the noise: the sound of the shower muffling out everything else and the warmth of the water easing all the day’s strain out of his muscles.

He stayed in longer than usual without realizing and when he got out again he was half starved. He dragged his duffle across the bench, unzipping it and tugging out his jeans. Something fell onto the floor with a tumble. He knelt down and scooped it up. It wasn't his, a water bottle, Reiner's. Stupid. He must have grabbed it when he was packing up. Oh well. 

He finished getting dressed quickly, darting into the stalls to steal a few rolls of toilet paper that he jammed into his bag on the way out.

Reiner was probably still hanging around, he’d said he would be waiting for Bert with Annie, and they were all probably practicing their album cover poses somewhere or whatever the fuck else they did when they were alone together.

He’d left him in the rehearsal hall, so he tried back there first. It was reasonably quiet for 8PM on a Tuesday. There was a bit of music floating down from the theatre upstairs, but it was probably Armin staying late with Hanji again, walking through the steps and talking about sets and costumes and whatever else up on the stage. 

If Jean was totally honest with himself he might admit to being a bit jealous. He didn’t want to be in Eren’s shoes, all that attention and pressure. He liked where he was, decent salary, reasonable position, not much pressure unless Reiner broke an ankle, but Reiner looked like he was built in some dwarven smithy, so that wasn’t likely. It was comfortable. But Armin got that comfort with none of the pressure. He got to stand up on that stage and shape the production from the sidelines. It was a nice spot to have. 

Then again, could he really go without the stage? Jean tried to imagine what it would be like to sit in the audience, to not feel the lights and the applause and all the rest. He’s tried to convince himself that didn’t matter, that he didn’t need it, but the truth is there’s a part of him that soars when he’s on the stage, a part of him he secretly hates more than a bit, and he doesn’t think he could ever let go of it, no matter how stupid it might be.

The rehearsal door’s shut. Jean sighs. He must have missed him. And tomorrow he’ll probably give him hell for stealing it. 

Suddenly, there’s a muffled sound just past the door. Jean frowns, stepping closer. He looks inside. It isn’t empty after all. He can see Reiner crossing the floor to where Annie and Bertholdt are stretching against the barre. Annie has one leg fully extended and Bert’s pushing it higher from her side, getting the muscle fully stretched. 

Jean should open the door. There’s no reason not to. But he doesn’t. He stands there, standing with the water bottle watching them through the thin glass line in the door for _absolutely no reason_. Hell, maybe he’s just curious what they do get up to when no one else is around.

Reiner slides up behind Bertholdt, threading an arm through his to push against Annie’s leg even firmer. Annie lets out a little grunt, shutting her eyes and focusing on the stretch, and Jean’s so distracted watching her pretty face flush up with concentration he doesn’t notice that Reiner’s slipped a hand around the front of Bertholdt’s hips until Bertholdt suddenly lets out a surprised noise and drops Annie’s leg.

Annie turns, cheeks still warm from the exercise, eyeing them with sudden ferocity. Reiner leans his head into the back of Bertholdt’s shoulder and _now_ Jean notices his hand, and _shit_ , that’s definitely not something he should be staring at it. 

Not that it’s a huge surprise... 

Reiner always watched baseball with a little too much _specific_ focus to seem anything less than 69% gay. That and the tank tops. And Bertholdt and he had always had an energy that none of them had illusions about, or at least it was never anything Jean missed. They always seemed to be aware of where the other one was subconsciously, never moving too far away from each other no matter what the circumstances, but never exactly looking at each other either.

It isn’t a surprise that Reiner’s groping Bertholdt in a rehearsal hall. What is surprising is the way Annie’s leaned back against the barre and is just _watching_ with her lips slightly parted and eyes calm and still as ever.

Reiner meets her look and moves. He wraps a hand around her wrist, pulling her closer to them as he pushes Bertholdt back-first towards the barre. He steps closer, pressing them all tighter together, Annie between them both, expression blank but eyes fluttering. Reiner’s hands easily lift her off the ground, pressing her back against Bertholdt’s chest. Bert’s hands ease down around her ass gently and Reiner opens his mouth on his neck as she arches her back with a soft sound. 

And _jesus_ , it’s getting a little graphic. Hell, it isn’t like Jean hasn’t had his own fair share of heated rehearsal hall quickies, but he’d never actually managed to get _two_ people in there are once.

Annie rolls her hips against theirs. Reiner’s hands slide up her chest, pressing her breasts high and firm. She gasps, head falling back against Bertholdt’s shoulder as Bertholdt tilts his head down enough to catch Reiner’s mouth, sliding his tongue heavy and _very_ slowly into his mouth and—

Jean’s pocket buzzes.

“Fuck, fuck,” Jean whispers, moving away from the door _very_ quickly, cheeks heating up to dangerous levels. 

It’s another text.

_MARCO_   
_I’m going to eat all your pasta._

Jean swears again, getting his bag better situated over his shoulder and rushing down the halls and out of the theatre. 

 

The walk back to the apartment took less time than usual. He shoulders his way in to the close and still new smell of the apartment eventually, breathing out the cold into his scarf.

“Hey! What took so long?” Marco calls from the kitchen.

“Practice.” Jean answers, slipping off his coat and scarf as he toes out of his sneakers.

“Did you remember—?” Marco starts.

Jean fumbles a toilet paper roll out of his bag and waves it at him for an answer. He stashes the rolls in the bathroom and his bag in his room before making his way back into the living room.

There’s plates on the counter. Two of them. Clean.

“Didn’t you eat?” Jean frowns.

“I was waiting for you,” Macro answers, snatching the plates and spooning out spaghetti onto each.

“You didn’t have to,” Jean says moving into the kitchen. “You must be starving.”

“Eh, not too bad,” Marco answers.

“Bullshit.” 

“Alright, maybe that bad, but why’d you take so long?”

“I told you,” Jean says, picking up his plate and moving towards the couch. “Practice.”

“You just got out?” Marco asks, following him.

“Um, well, no,” Jean fumbles. He collapses back into the sofa the street had so generously given them as a house warming present. 

Marco frowned at it, wrinkling his nose.

“Oh, come on,” Jean sighs, scooting to one side. “It’s leather, how scary could it be? I Windexed the shit out of it.”

“Really not sure that makes it better.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“AIDs?” Marco tries.

“Unless you plan on fucking it I don’t think that should be a problem.”

Marco sighs, and gingerly sits down on the arm. Well, it’s a start at least. He adjusts slightly, forking a mouthful of spaghetti into his mouth, and yeah, bullshit he wasn’t starving.

“How’s your rehearsals?” Jean asks.

“Good,” Marco mumbles, trying to sound passably polite through his food. “Armin’s been walking us through the wedding dances. Should be great.”

“I guess I’ll have to learn those too…” Jean realizes.

“So, what took so long after rehearsal?” Marco says, mouth still half full.

“What are you, my wife?” Jean laughs.

Marco blushes, frowning.

Jean looks away, focusing back on his noodles. And _shit_. He scrambles. “Shower. I showered.”

“Ah, right,” Marco says, as if that explains everything. He’s been his roommate for years, he knows how much he loves wasting time under someone else’s hot water.

“And there was something else,” Jean hears himself say.

Marco looks up. “Oh yeah?”

“Yup,” Jean swallows his mouthful. “It was, um, interesting.”

“What?” Marco laughs, “Did you walk in on someone getting laid in the practice room or something?”

Jean stares.

Marco stares back. “Holy shit.”

“How the fuck did you know?!”

“I was joking!” Marco tries.

“Jesus Christ,” Jean mutters through marinara sauce. “Good guess. Only not someone, someone’s.”

“What, seriously? Who?” Marco asks, and he doesn’t seem to remember that the couch is a derelict street urchin, because he’s swung his legs around and scooted deeper into it, focusing on Jean with intense curiosity.

“Guess,” Jean smiles. 

Marco groans, “Oh, cooome oooon.”

“You come on,” Jean says. “It will be fun.”

“Alright, alright,” Marco says, sliding all the way onto the couch now. Jean smirks into his plate. “Ymir? Maybe with that girl from the Nutcracker, you know, Sugarplum Fairy?”

“No,” Jean says. “But Sugarplum Fairy was immensely hot. If it’d been them I’d still be lurking in the window honestly.”

Marco frowns, focusing on his noodles. “Petra and Mike?”

“No!” Jean says. “They’re not a thing. Are they?”

Marco shrugs. “I got a vibe, the other night. I don’t know. You said guess.”

“Well, you’re shit at it.”

“That’s not my fault!”

Jean sighs. “Annie. Alright? It was Annie.”

“Oh.” Marco stares. “Wow. With who? … Mikasa?”

Jean splutters. “What?! No! Mikasa’s not, I mean I don’t think, anyway’s it’s not—“ but now he’s got that mental image and it’s making it a little hard to concentration.

“Bertholdt?” Marco asks.

“ _And_ Reiner,” Jean adds.

Marco stares back at him. “What… both?”

Jean nods. “Yup. Like I said, interesting.”

“Yeah I guess so…” Marco says, gazing at the air in front of him with a rather lost expression. 

It’s quiet for a while, just the sound of forks on cheap ceramic and the traffic outside the windows, five floors down.

“That’s…” Marco starts finally.

“Weird?” Jean tries.

“I was actually going to say pretty hot.”

Jean tries not to choke on his spaghetti. He coughs once, giving his chest a good hard slap.

“What?” Marco stares.

“No, just… Nothing.” Jean recovers.

“Well... Wasn’t it?” Marco tries again after a moment.

The apartment is somehow even quieter. Jean realizes they’ve both stopped eating.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “It kinda was.”

Marco leans back into the couch, both of them staring ahead at the empty wall, or down at their cleaned plates.

“Really hot,” Jean says quietly. “Actually.”

They’re quiet for a while longer.

“Ice cream?” Marco says eventually.

“Definitely,” Jean answers. 

 

He can’t deny there’s a certain thrill to standing on this stage. The audition had been one thing, nerves tight in the stomach, the theater dark and ominous, the most powerful figures in the theatre sitting at that long table pens poised, eyes sharp. This is different.

The theatre’s bright, pleasant, shades pulled back from the windows on the third tier of seats so the light floods into the space. Amazing to think that in just a few months they’ll all be standing on this stage together, trying their best to pull the damn thing off.

“Not that we aren’t enjoying the view Kirstein, but we’re moving onto the first James and Sylph again now,” Hanji calls from the floor.

“Right, sorry,” Jean mutters, hurrying down the steps back to the seats. 

Hanji’s got them warming up with the Effie and James dances, likely trying to get Eren in a decent spot before going back to anything with Levi. Those were actually coming along pretty well, Eren didn’t seem to have nearly the same problem hoisting Mikasa up that he did with Levi. Probably helped that he’s been picking her up and pretending they were on a stage like this since they were six.

Jean made his way to his seat, collapsing back with a sigh. God, they should always rehearse up here, the seats were _much_ more comfortable. 

Reiner dropped into the seat next to him. “So, what’d you see?”

Jean tenses instantly. “What?”

“Up there,” Reiner grins, titling his head towards the stage. “What’d you see? Seats full of people? Girls chucking their panties at your face.”

“I don’t think that really happens at the ballet anymore,” Jean manages. “Unfortunately.”

Reiner grunts agreement. Jean sinks deeper into his seat, trying his best not to keep picturing the guy sandwiching Annie against another dude’s chest while slamming his tongue down his throat. Seeing Annie off on the other side of the rows stretching her obliques really isn’t helping either.

Levi’s twisting his back as he walks out onto the stage, elevating up and down onto his toes as he warms up. Eren’s got his eyes closed lightly, mouth ghosting words, as if he’s going over the steps mentally.

“Alright,” Hanji claps her hands together at the front of the stage, pencil tucked behind her ear. “Ready?”

“Don’t let me interrupt,” a voice calls from the back.

Jean turns, along with everyone else. The director’s making his way down the center aisle towards them.

Jean immediately sits back in his seat, focusing on the stage, which turns out doesn’t make anything better because Eren looks like he might throw up and Levi’s glaring with contempt strong enough to probably burn through metal.

“So, don’t,” Levi suggests.

The director ignores him. “How’s it going?” He asks Hanji.

Hanji turns. “I’m glad you’re here, I wanted to ask you about the set pieces and see when we might get them some costumes.”

“What are the costumes?” Mikasa asks suddenly.

“It’s going to be a very minimal production,” Erwin answers.

“Innovative,” Levi snarks from the stage. 

“What’s his problem?” Reiner mutters to Jean.

“I don’t know,” Jean lies.

“Simple lines, black and white,” Erwin continues to Mikasa as if he hasn’t heard Levi.

“Keeping the Scottish theme?” She asks.

“Not exactly,” Erwin answers. “We’re going to have very stark shapes, long thin layered rectangles for the trees, a simple black skyline of hills for the backdrop, emphasizing the supernatural and almost dream-like elements of the story. We’ll be working with some German Expressionist influences.”

Levi rolls his eyes so hard on the stage it’s almost audible. 

“We’ll keep the shapes and silhouettes from elements of the original production. James will still have a kilt of sorts, but it will be black, along with the rest of his costume. Black for the human elements, white for the ethereal ones. Simple. Clean.”

“German,” Levi emphasizes. 

“What about Madge?” Annie asks.

“Grey,” Erwin answers.

“Ah.” Reiner nods.

“But I really didn’t mean to interrupt,” Erwin insists. “I just wanted to see how things have been going. I should have checked in earlier.”

There’s several unsaid sentences left hanging after that one, but Jean doesn’t try to fill in the blanks. Not that he’d have to try very hard…

Erwin settles down into a seat in the front row. “Please.”

Hanji turns back to the stage. Eren’s staring at the ground with furious concentration, as if it’s the only thing that’s keeping him from evaporating into nothing. 

“Shall we start from the entrance?” Hanji asks.

Eren and Levi obediently move to their places. The pianist off to the side of the stage stretches her hands over the keys and begins to play.

To Eren’s credit he actually manages to not do any worse, and maybe even a little better. He moves through the steps well and cleanly, still too focused, but maybe the fact that there’s an audience instead of a mirror really is helping. He’s still too tight and obviously more concerned with getting it right than forgetting about right and wrong and letting the dance flow through him, but it comes together into a pretty decent picture. 

Jean glances over at Erwin. He’s watching them very carefully, one hand closed under his chin. 

The dances moves forward, but the more it progresses the more distracted Eren seems to become. When he’s not looking at Levi it seems to be easier for him. He moves away, following his steps, and Levi pursues, but as the chase shifts Eren’s motions become harder, still correct, but mechanical, and only seeming more awkward compared to Levi’s fluid, easy grace. 

They join and it only gets worse. Jean winces at the pure concentration on Eren’s face as he spins Levi and then lifts him, giving him the necessary height to follow through with the steps. 

“Hold,” Hanji sighs. 

The piano falls off and Eren steps back, shutting his eyes hard. Jean can almost hear him silently cursing himself as he stands there.

Jean looks over towards Erwin. He’s hardly moved, still watching the stage carefully, a small line of concern between his brows.

“Again,” Hanji says, and the piano starts once more.

They try it three times, only getting half way through each one, before Hanji calls stop again. “Eren,” she sighs, “you start out fine, and you’re hitting every step, but…”

Erwin stands. “Maybe I can help?”

Hanji and Eren stare at him. Levi looks at his nails idly.

“Sure, of course,” Hanji says.

Erwin steps forward. “If you don’t mind me demonstrating?” He asks Eren.

Eren swallows, nodding. 

Erwin looks at Levi. “Do you mind?”

Levi meets his eyes levelly. “Why would I mind?”

Erwin says nothing, kneeling down and untying his shoes. He slips out of the leather oxfords, sliding them neatly under his seat and tucking his socks in after them. He’s wearing charcoal suit pants, loose enough to allow for movement. He easily shrugs out of his button-up leaving just his t-shirt.

Reiner leans forward with keen interest as Erwin pads up onto the stage, and Jean can’t help following suit. He hasn’t seen Erwin Smith dance for years, and definitely never like this. Across the aisle he can see Annie actually glancing up for the first time that day.

Erwin glances at Levi as he reaches the stage. Levi looks back, bored, hollow. Erwin nods at the pianist and they move to their positions.

“Have you ever had one of those dreams,” Erwin starts, looking down to Eren, “that’s so incredible, so perfect, that you know if must be a dream, but a part of you hopes, against all reason, that it might slip into reality?”

Jean shifts in his seat awkwardly. Reiner stares intently at the scene in front of him. Mikasa’s leaned back, taking it in with a quiet interest, Annie silent and stony next to her.

“Do you know what I mean?” Erwin asks again.

Eren swallows. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Good,” Erwin nods. He starts to move. His steps are thoughtless, perfect, as if it’s muscle memory and nothing more. But there’s a sternness, a military edge that’s not totally unlike Eren’s style. 

Behind him Levi falls into position, moving closer, all liquid and air. Erwin circles around him, not touching, just echoing, following. Steps solid. Grounded. Strong. Human.

“That’s what this is,” Erwin says, ghosting a hand along the line of Levi’s arm without touching, following him, still far away, but reaching out all the same. “This is the dream that you hope despite yourself stays when you wake up again.”

Eren’s leaned forward. Hanji’s crossed her arms in her lap, attention sharp and entranced.

“But…” Erwin says. His voice is lower. Closer. “You’re not sure if you dare.”

Their steps draw tighter. Levi isn’t looking at him. His expression is empty, distant. 

“It’s so close, but still so far, separated from you through logic and reason,” Erwin continues. He extends an arm and Levi spins past it, only the air of his movement touching his partner. “So close, close enough to touch, but you’re afraid, afraid that if you tried, if you touched, you’d remember it’s impossible.”

Erwin turns away from the pas deux with a short step, facing the audience, expression distant. “You try to look away. You try to forget. But there’s no forgetting what you wish with all your soul to be true.”

Levi’s steps move precisely. Lightly, carefully, he rests his hand on Erwin’s shoulder. 

Instantly Erwin turns, slipping down to his knee and looking up at him with such fierce hope that Jean actually looses a breath.

Levi’s weight leans, tentative, hopeful against the support of his shoulder, extending impossibly high and then Erwin’s flowing to his feet, hands confident, turning him easily, hungrily.

“You cling to each touch, each moment, because at any instant it could end,” Erwin says. His voice is so quiet now that Jean can hardly hear him. “You know it must be a dream, it has to be, because nothing real can be this perfect.”

Levi’s breath catches and Erwin lifts him. It’s so naturally, like he’s taking flight and Erwin’s strength has nothing to do with the action. It’s slow, reverent, almost like a prayer: lost, lonely, and full of hope.

“But maybe,” Erwin lets him drift down once again, easing him into a spin between his arms, “if you hold on long enough, you’ll forget what’s impossible.”

His hands catch Levi’s hips, firm and confident and he lifts him once more. The height is greater, the tension higher. He holds him and Levi flows, legs easily lifting into a frozen moment. It holds, taunt, stark. Beautiful. And then, gently, carefully, Erwin gently places him down again, feet sliding back into a normal attitude. 

He lets him go. And the music stops.

Levi stumbles slightly at the loss of support as Erwin walks back to the front of the stage, but gathers himself up again quickly. 

“At least that’s the theory,” Erwin says, slightly breathless. “If that helps.”

The theater’s very quiet. Jean can’t help looking at Levi. He’s standing where he was left, posture slightly askew, face just flushed enough to notice. Jean thinks he might be breathing a little harder than he should be.

Erwin steps down lightly from the stage, pulling his shoes on quickly and clearing his throat. “There’s a board meeting. I’ll check back in soon. Thank you for showing me.”

And with that he’s gone.

Hanji stands, clearing her throat sharply. “Well… shall we give it another try?”

 

It’s late again when Jean gets back to the apartment. Marco’s on the couch, watching something on the laptop. 

“Hey,” Jean calls as he shuts the door behind him.

Marco makes a vague noise from the couch. 

“How was rehearsals?” Jean asks.

“Less interesting than yours,” Marco says, shutting his laptop and rolling over on the couch to face him. He looks tired.

“You didn’t have to stay up.” Jean frowns.

Marco rolls his eyes. He seems broody. Jean decides to ignore it, wandering into the kitchen for some water. If he’s going to stay up late, he shouldn’t take out his bad mood on him.

“How’d you hear about rehearsal?” Jean asks.

“I saw it,” Marco says.

Jean turns, “What?”

“I saw it,” Marco repeats. “You said we’d pop out for lunch and I came up to meet you. I came in after the director. Then I left.”

_Shit._ “I forgot about lunch. Sorry...”

Marco shrugs. “It’s alright. I know it’s busy.”

He sounds like he means it so Jean accepts that, pulling a glass out of the cabinet, nudging on the sink and filling it up.

“It’s nuts though,” Jean continues. “I can’t believe the crap that Eren’s going through. Just goes to show.”

“Goes to show what?” Marco asks. 

Jean swallows half the glass, wiping his mouth. “That it’s bullshit, all that attention, ‘the limelight’ or whatever.”

Marco says nothing.

“You know, here he is with all this stress and pressure, and what’s he getting out of it? An early career?”

“It’s his dream,” Marco says.

Jean laughs. “Yeah, right, awesome dream.”

Marco turns suddenly, slinging an arm over the back of the sofa with sharp eyes. “What’s wrong with it?”

Jean’s taken aback. “It’s just… I don’t know. It’s naive.”

“It was your dream. Not too long ago.” 

“No it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was,” Marco insists. “And you know that. We used to stay up talking about the roles we wanted and the shows we could be a part of.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t,” Jean clears his throat. “I mean, that was before. It’s stupid to hang onto that stuff. It’s easier to just make do, you know. We’re part of the theatre now, that’s great, and maybe that can be enough.”

“Sure,” Marco shrugs. “Maybe. If you really felt that way.”

Jean stares. “What are you talking about?”

“You want those roles,” Marco says simply. “You want to be on the stage with the lights and the cheers. You pretend that you don’t, but I know you, and I’ve seen your face when you watch those dancers. You want to be there. You want it to be you.”

Jean swallows. “That’s not… it’s different. There’s fantasy and reality, and reality’s a much fucking safer place to stand. And I’m not even that good. I’m not Levi or Erwin. I’m definitely not Mikasa.”

Marco laughs, short and sharp, sitting back down on the couch, back to him. “Right, Mikasa. So when are you going to ask her out?”

Jean gapes. “What?”

“You’ve been staring at her for years. Years. Talking about her since we got here. You’ve told me at least a hundred times that she’s amazing. So, when are you going to ask her out?”

Jean can’t seem to make his mind work right. He sets down his glass firmly. “Where’s all this coming from? What’s wrong with you?”

Marco spins to face him again. “Wrong with _me_?”

“Yeah!” Jean yells without meaning to, “What’s you problem?”

“You’re my problem!” Marco yells back. 

The room goes quiet for a minute and Jean tries not to notice that he’s suddenly blushing but Marco pushes through it. “I’m just tired Jean, I’m tired of you dancing around things instead of actually just _trying_ for once.”

Jean stares hard at the floor. “So, you don’t think I try?”

“Not with anything you’re afraid to fail at!” Marco says. “You want to be a dancer but you’re too afraid to fail at something big so you pretend you don’t care. You want Mikasa but you’re too afraid she’ll reject you never take a shot at something real.”

“Well, what about you?” Jean snaps suddenly.

Marco stares. “Me?”

“When’s the last time you dated anyone? What? _Lisa_ when we were fourteen? What about you taking chances, leaps?”

Marco doesn’t say anything. He slips back into the couch, turning away from him.

“Maybe you’re right,” he says finally.

Jean leans heavily against the counter. He’s suddenly feeling impossibly exhausted, and a little sick if he’s honest. They never fight like this. He’s not even sure he knows what’s happening. Maybe he’s imagining it.

“I’m sorry I forgot about lunch,” he says.

Marco sighs, standing up from the sofa and running a hand through his hair. “Nah, it’s alright. I didn’t mean… maybe I should have gone to bed.”

Jean frowns. “Maybe.”

Marco moves across the floor towards his room. “Just forget it alright?”

Jean isn’t sure what to say. He’s still in the kitchen. The counter feels suddenly awkward under his fingers. He has the sneaking suspicion he’s ruined something but he can’t imagine what.

Marco reaches his door, stopping in the frame and turning back to him with a weak smile. “Alright?”

Jean attempts to smile back. He hopes it’s convincing. “Yeah, sure.”

Marco returns the expression, stronger this time, and then he’s gone into the darkness of his room. He shuts the door behind him.

Jean stays in the kitchen for a while longer, listening to the traffic outside and trying to find some sense of things. But it doesn’t seem to work. He finds his bed eventually. For someone as exhausted as he is he should probably sleep better.


	7. Chapter 7

“Nervous?” Hanji asks.

Armin looks up at her, eyes wide. He isn’t exactly sure how to answer. Might as well try honestly. “Yes.” 

“Good,” Hanji says, leaning close. She always smells like some alien combination of cinnamon, lilac, and miso. “Me too.” She winks.

Armin smiles, turning back to the notes spread out thick and cryptic on the table in front of them. “And you’re sure it’s not too early to start full run throughs?”

“We have to start sometime, and it’s good to get everyone in the same space sooner rather than later. That is if your lot has their steps down,” she adds.

“They do,” Armin answers. He’s not sure exactly how _well_ they have them down, but they were at least part way there . It just has to start pulling together, all the bits of the ballet, threaded through with a common vision, now needing a good tug to unite the creation. 

“How’s Eren doing?” Armin asks.

Hanji sighs. “Better, but it’s still a challenge.”

Armin frowns, flitting through the papers. “He’s nervous is all. It just means so much to him.”

“Well, he can’t be nervous,” Hanji says simply. “He isn’t Eren with the chance of a lifetime, he’s James, and he has to accept that. He’s too lost in the conditions of his own realities to let them slip away and allow the character to shine through.”

“I know,” Armin answers. “He’s too focused on doing it well.”

“He’s good with Mikasa,” Hanji concedes. “She chills him out I think. It’s comfortable, familiar, which is exactly how their dances should feel.”

“Maybe we should introduce her earlier,” Armin tries. “Even if they don’t dance, she could just come on the stage and that might calm him down enough to go into the rest easier.”

Hanji drops her head onto the table. “We can’t. The sylph has to be the first one we see, James isn’t sympathetic otherwise. If his girlfriend comes on stage and tucks him in and then all he does is dream of other women he’ll come off as a complete ass.”

“Yeah,” Armin sighs. “I know.”

“Look,” Hanji turns, lifting herself up to lean on her elbow. “It will come together. Maybe when they’re all together he’ll see he’s not the only one still getting the hang of this. Just him and Mikasa and Levi, well, it creates a pretty high standard.”

Armin nods. 

Behind them the theatre doors open and dancers begin filing in. Armin doesn’t turn around. He focuses on the papers spread out in front of them, the months of work they represent. He’s comfortable with the work, the thought behind it. He isn’t as comfortable turning around and telling and entire cast what he expects out of them, but he can let Hanji handle that part. One day he might be able to manage it himself, but it’s his first year here, less than his first year, he's allowed time to warm up to the idea.

Hanji stands up, leaning back on the table and smiling as the group files in. Armin takes a good deep breath and follows her lead. Mikasa and Eren are settling in a few rows back, smiling at him. He smiles back, already feeling better.

The rest of the dancers make their way towards the front, scattering through the seats haphazardly. He can see Levi and Petra sitting close together off to the left, Jean and Reiner settling in nearby. Ymir and Krista squeeze in next to Sasha and Connie while Bertholdt and Annie scan the rows. 

Mike makes his way up to the front, clipboard in hand, yelling out roll-call as he goes. Erwin follows behind him, moving towards the stage deliberately.

“All set?” He asks Hanji as he steps up next to her.

“Should be,” Hanji smiles.

“Good.” He turns to face the crowd, voice filling the space easily, “Welcome.”

Anyone who hasn’t settled yet quiets down instantly, finding a place in whichever seat is closest.

“This is the first full rehearsal for our production of _La Sylphide_.” Erwin says. There’s a smattering of applause and a few enthusiastic “whoops” from the dancers and the gathered staff. “It’s always a bit of a trial getting through the first run, but I think we’re all excited to start pulling the production together. I would like to get through a full run, no matter how many stops, so it might be a late night, but we’ll have done it, and we can move on from there.”

Erwin steps back slightly, crossing his arms behind him. “Now, it’s not exactly standard for us to do rehearsal on the stage while it’s still reasonably early in the production, but I thought since so many of you are new here it would be a good experience to have, and a nice opening for the full rehearsals. Mike will be keeping close track of steps and a record of pacing for us to work with. Hanji will take a moment to walk us through the dance in summary since I know some of you haven’t had exposure to all of the individual rehearsals.”

He waves to her, moving back and taking a seat next to Armin at the table. 

Hanji bounds up, quickly stepping up the stairs and onto the stage. “Ohayou!”

The group murmurs variations of “good morning” back to her.

“Now,” she begins, “we haven’t got the set up just yet, but the pieces are coming together, so I’ll ask you to imagine—“

A shrill screaming sound suddenly fills the theater.

Everyone goes quiet, looking around dumbly, which lasts about half a second before the sprinkler system kicks in.

Screams sound throughout the theater. Erwin’s on his feet in a second, staring in shock at the ceiling as water cascades down over all of them. Behind them chaos breaks out, dancers scrambling over seats, struggling to get to the aisle and out the door. 

“Armin!” Hanji yells suddenly, practically screaming above the noise. “The notes!”

_Shit!_

He looks down. The water is quickly turning the notes on the table into a mulch of yellow and mess. He scrambles, trying to gather up what he can. 

Hanji is rushing across the stage to get to him. Quickly, too quickly. She slips, the slick of the stage catching her foot.

“Hanji!” Levi yells out, rushing towards the stage, but it’s too late. Her ankle twists, sending her falling off the side of the stage. She hits the ground with a sharp “twack”, letting out a hard yell.

The theater’s nothing but confusion. There’s water in Armin’s eyes, soaking through his clothes. Eren and Mikasa are somehow next to him, trying to help gather up the papers but most of them are coming apart under their fingers.

Levi and a group of others are circling around Hanji with concern as she continues to swear bloody murder through her teeth. Erwin is yelling at Mike across the theatre about shutting off the system, and Mike’s yelling back that he’s not “a fucking fireman”. 

Armin manages to jam the final scraps he’s salvaged into his bag, looking towards the stage frantically.

“Someone call an ambulance!” Levi yells.

Armin heads for the door, Eren and Mikasa close behind him. He grabs his cellphone out of his pocket as soon as they’re clear.

“Yes - Titen Ballet Theatre, there’s been an accident, fire alarms, I’m not sure if there’s a fire. Someone’s slipped and fallen quite badly. Send an ambulance,” Armin says, trying to keep his voice as collected as he can.

Out in the foyer it’s still a mess. Soaked dancers are rushing about everywhere, frantic expressions, questions flying through the air. 

Ymir and Marco are suddenly next to them. “Is she alright, did you see?”

“I don’t know,” Eren manages.

“Yes,” Armin says into the phone, covering his other ear to block them out. “No, no I think she’s conscious. I think it’s just her ankle, but I’m not sure.” He looks to the others. “Did you see?”

Jean hurries up next to them. “She was definitely conscious. She didn’t hit her head—“

Suddenly the doors behind them burst open again. Levi and Sasha are out first, behind them comes Bertholdt, carrying Hanji out of the spraying water. Instantly dancers begin to crowd them.

“Are you alright?”

“What happened?”

“Oh god, your ankle!”

“Okay, okay,” Reiner cements himself between Bertholdt and the crowd, “let’s just back up, alright?”

Annie is suddenly at Armin’s elbow. “Did you call an ambulance?”

Armin swallows, hanging up the phone. “Yeah, the fire department had already left as well. I think maybe we should get people out of here.”

“Where’s Erwin?” Mikasa asks.

“Still in there,” Levi says.

“They’re trying to find a way to shut it off,” Krista adds.

“They should get out of there.” Marco says. “What if there’s actually a fire?”

“It must be out now!” Connie insists.

“You never know,” Sasha frowns.

“Alright, alright,” Jean says suddenly, pushing into the crowd. “There’s obviously no rehearsal, so I think we should all make some space here.”

Armin pushes past, moving towards Hanji.

“Emergency services will have to get through,” Jean continues, “so I think anyone who’s capable of getting home should do that, right?”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the crowd. People begin moving towards the doors.

“Good,” Jean sighs. He turns back towards the rest of them. “Anything you need?”

“I think we just have to wait for the ambulance,” Armin says. He’s reached Hanji now, her eyes are screwed shut and she’s breathing through her nose. Bertholdt’s still holding her, which is probably for the best, if he put her down now it might get worse.

“You’re right, Jean,” Annie says, stepping forward and pushing the wet mess of her hair out of her face. “We should make room.”

“Yeah, right,” Marco says, moving towards the doors.

“Come on,” Ymir says, wrapping an arm around Krista’s shoulder and pulling her away. Connie and Sasha follow them. Reiner stays, along with Bertholdt and the three of them.

Levi’s standing close to Hanji, staring at her with a firm intensity. One of his feet is tapping very quickly on the floor.

“They shouldn’t be in there still.” He says finally.

“I’ll go check,” Eren says, instantly disappearing back into the theater.

Armin can hear sirens in the distance.

Mikasa drives him and Eren to the hospital half an hour later. 

The ambulance left well before them. Levi had insisted on following it, which had been a bit of a problem since he didn’t actually own a car, but Petra did so they drove together. They were probably there now. 

Armin had gotten a half decent look at the state of her ankle before they left, but it was hard to tell behind her pant leg, shoes, socks, etc. At least it didn’t look like a compound fracture from what he could see. But who knew, it might be someone else, she might have landed on her hip wrong, or her back. He tried not to think about it. He focused on the bag in his lap, opening it up in the back seat and trying to sort through the notes inside.

It was a mess. Half of the paper was destroyed, all melded together into an indistinguishable mass. He wanted to peel the pages apart, see what was salvageable, but that wasn’t a good idea. He’d have Eren take it back to the apartment, he and Mikasa could try and separate them, lay them out for drying. But the heavy feeling in his stomach insisted it wouldn’t make a difference. 

They’d left Erwin at the theater.

He’d emerged to meet the firemen when they got there, completely soaked, and looking more frantic than Armin had ever seen him, which, given that last awkward moment he witnessed, might even be saying something. His eyes had been wide, darting, jaw set, motions quick and jagged. He and Mike hadn’t found anything wrong. Armin had a feeling the firefighter’s would confirm that. There’d been no smoke, he hadn’t seen any flames. He hoped it had been an accident. After all, a wet theatre was better than a burnt theatre… but a wet theater wasn’t exactly great either.

He thought about the age of the walls, the cushions of the seats, the carpeting. God… this really was a mess.

By the time they got to the hospital, Hanji had been seen to. They’d gotten her situated and had her off in x-rays or something along those lines. Levi was a little vague explaining it, but the gist from the doctors was essentially, “it’s not good, but not terrible, and we need to check everything to make sure it isn’t worse than it seems”.

Armin sent Eren and Mikasa back with his pack, and settles into the sterile hospital seats for a good wait. Petra leaves after the first hour, saying something about wanting to make sure things back at the theatre were alright, being able to be more helpful back there. Levi doesn’t go with her. He sits opposite of Armin out in the waiting room, off-white tiles under their feet, florescent lights overhead, a vending machine off to one side rumbling every once in a while as someone uses it. They don’t speak. There isn’t really much to say.

Armin thinks halfheartedly about how silly they must look. He’s still soaking, although he’d tried to towel off with Eren’s sweatshirt in the car and is wearing Mikasa’s to stay warm. Levi’s still in his rehearsal things, regular ballet shoes on his feet, tights, leotard, parka, beanie.

Armin passes the time with his phone, trying to jot down as many of the notes as he can remember. He’s filled six pages by the time a woman with rimless glasses finally walks up to them.

“Excuse me,” she says kindly, “are you here with Hanji Zoe?”

“Yes,” Armin’s, instantly standing. “Is she alright?”

“Are you her… family?” The nurse tries.

“Yes,” says Levi. Exactly as Armin says, “No.”

The doctor stares at them.

“Co-workers,” Armin tries to salvage, “we came with her after the accident.”

“I see,” the woman says, giving Levi and quick narrow glance. “Well, she’s doing fine, it was a hard fall but she’ll be alright.”

“What’s her condition?” Armin asks.

“She’s on painkillers right now, she won’t be conscious for a little while.”

“Did she break it?” Levi asks.

The doctor furrows her brow. “She broke her ankle, and I’m afraid she’s slipped a disc”

“A disc?!” Armin gapes.

“Yes, her back hit a bad angle in the fall.”

Levi frowns. “What does that mean?”

“Disc are what protect the bones of your spine by absorbing shock. There’s two parts, a soft inner potion and tough outer ring. In this case the inner portion has been forced out of the outer ring. It’s also pushing on several nerves, which causes pain and numbness.”

Armin swallows, slipping back down into his chair. 

“How long does she have to stay?” Levi asks.

“The ankle and the back make the rehabilitation challenging. The ankle is just a medial malleolus fracture, which isn’t too serious. She will need a brace and won’t be able to put weight on it for six weeks or so. But physical therapy is important to recovery from a slipped disc, so we’ll have to mange that with the ankle. In her case it wasn’t serious enough to require surgery at this time, but if her discomfort continues longer than six weeks we will have to take another look. For now I think she should remain here for a week or so until she’s in a better place to manage the requirements of daily life. It will be a process.”

Levi swears, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

“There’s not much more to be done today,” the doctor says. “She might be awake later in the afternoon, but she really should rest. I’d recommending going home, coming back tomorrow.”

“I’ll wait,” Levi says instantly.

Armin frowns. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Did I ask you?” Levi says, leveling him a blank look.

“No,” Armin says, “but you’re still soaking, and so am I. You’re still in rehearsal clothes, and she should rest. We want her to get better, and us being here isn’t going to make that happen any faster.”

Levi frowns, staring hard at the tiled floor.

“We can come back tomorrow. Early.” He looks up to the Doctor. “Right?”

“Of course,” she says.

“Right.” Armin nods. “So?”

Levi looks back at him. Eventually he nods shortly.

“Thank you,” Armin says, glancing back up at the doctor. She nods, smiling kindly and moving off, back the way she came. 

Levi frowns. “Do you drive?”

“Uh, no.” Armin suddenly realizes.

“Perfect,” Levi sighs.

“I’ll call Mikasa,” Armin sighs.

 

By the time they get back to the apartment Eren’s done his best with the notes. It looks like some of them were saved, laid out neatly and kindly by the windows where the sun can dry them better, but it’s a a paltry percentage. It looks like he’s only managed to get half of what they’d had into his bag at all, and only about a quarter of that is splayed out across their apartment.

It’s a loss, plain and simple. 

Mikasa makes dinner. Calls come in all through the day. Connie says he’s heard the theatre is ruined. Jean adds he heard there wasn’t a fire at all. Ymir’s heard there had been one, but it was just some smoking intern. 

No one else had been hurt. One of the sylph dancers had slipped and knocked her head, but it wasn’t seriously. Luckily. 

Armin doesn’t sleep well. He manages two hours before getting up and going back to the notes on his phone, maniacally trying to capture anything he might have missed.

In the morning Eren and Mikasa head to the theatre to see if there’s rehearsal, or at least space to practice. Armin’s back at the hospital before eight.

When he gets to the door, Levi’s leaving. He nods shortly as he passes him, swinging his coat over his shoulders and walking off in the direction of the cafe.

Armin enters quietly, carefully.

Erwin’s sitting in the chair by the bed. Hanji’s awake, but looks bleary.

“Oh, sorry,” Armin says, moving to leave again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s alright,” Erwin says.

“Stay.” Hanji smiles.

Armin forces a smile back, moving into the room. Sunlight eases through the square windows and it’s actually rather pleasant. There’s flowers by her bed, at least five bouquets. He finds himself wondering when that tradition started. Why flowers? Why always in the hospital? It seemed rather morbid suddenly; they died so quickly. It was almost macabre to be stuck in a hospital bed, with nothing to do but watch flowers die.

Hanji had her glasses on again, perched on the edge of her nose. Her back was braced, a nice sweater wrapped around her shoulders that Levi or Erwin must have brought her that morning from home or the theater. She seemed sleepy but awake at least, hazy with what he assumed were plenty of painkillers. 

“How’s the theatre?” Armin asks, sitting down in the chair on the other side of the bed.

A pained expression flits across Erwin’s face. “Damaged.”

“How badly?”

“They got the water off after twenty minutes or so, but it’s a large space, and it will take a long time to dry out.” Erwin sighs. He leans back in his seat. Armin notices the dark circles under his eyes, the sag to his shoulders. He wonders if he slept at all.

“We’ve spent most of the morning with contractors,” Erwin continues.

 _Most of the morning_. Armin frowns. It was 8:45. He wonders what sort of tone Erwin had to use on the phone to get contractors in any earlier than this.

“They say a month,” Erwin says. “A month before it’s ready for the public again.”

“A month! What about rehearsals?” Armin asks.

Erwin runs a hand through his hair. “The stage got off alright, but they’ll be in the theatre doing repairs for the full month in order to get it done as soon as possible, which is what we want. But it isn’t exactly a conducive artistic environment.”

“Not to mention trying to hear the piano above the sound of wet-vacs,” Hanji notes.

“Not to mention,” Erwin smiles weakly.

Hanji sighs, she tries to adjust and instantly winces. Erwin frowns at her scoldingly. She ignores him, eyeing Armin.

“Notes?” She asks.

Armin swallows, shaking his head. “I got some, but it’s not a lot. I spent time yesterday trying to capture it all again.”

“This is what you get for not using a proper computer,” Erwin chides.

“Computer’s are limiting,” Hanji insists. “The ideas don’t flow right all organized in neat mathematical lines like that.”

“I should have recorded backups,” Armin frowns.

“No, it’s alright,” Hanji says quickly. “So we lost notes, who cares? You know John Updike’s entire first draft of _Rabbit Run_ got eaten by his dog? No shit. And who knows, the first draft might have been better, but the second one turned out pretty damn good too.”

Armin smiles. 

“Not that this doesn’t seriously suck,” Hanji adds. Erwin grunts, as if that’s an almost comical understatement. 

“Well, what do we do?” Armin asks. “Postpone?”

“No,” Erwin says. “We can’t. Pixis can only keep an entire production secretive for so long, and same goes for us. The fewer details we release, the more curious the public and the community will grow, and the longer we extend that the greater chance we have of loosing the secrecy.”

“And loosing the production,” Hanji says.

“You think so?” Armin asks.

“If the details leak out it won’t be doing us any favors,” Erwin says. “Funding could be pulled, sponsors dropping before we’ve had a chance to prove the quality. Reviewers will have time to form an opinion before they see it for what it is. We loose control of the story. We need to set the terms in which people are exposed to this. It sounds sensationalist out of context.”

Armin nods. “So… we move forward without a theatre? What else was damaged, was there a fire?”

“No,” Erwin says. “Well, yes, but it wasn’t anything. Someone had left a cigarette in an inconvenient location, it started a small fire directly under a detector.”

Armin frowns. He’s starting to wonder just how much bad luck a theatre can have. This seems a little unreasonable, or at least seriously unlikely.

“The rehearsal halls aren’t damaged. We can work in there until the theater’s repaired,” Erwin says. 

“But, if it takes a month, we will only have a week or two to rehearse before the show opens,” Armin starts. “And that’s if it takes a month. It might go long.”

“Yes. But we are left with few options,” Erwin answers. 

Armin nods silently. 

“You’re going to have to take over,” Hanji says, “for a while at least.”

Armin’s heart jumps in his chest. “What? No, no, I… there should be someone else.”

“Well, there isn’t,” Hanji says simply. “You’re the apprentice, and I’m not going anywhere, not for two weeks at least.”

Armin swallows hard. “I don’t… I’m not sure I can do that.”

“Of course you can,” Hanji says.

“No,” Armin tries, “I’m not, I haven’t been here for more than a few months. I never done a season, I’ve never even done a show! Why should they listen to me?”

“Because you’re good at your job,” Erwin says simply. “And because I tell them to.”

Armin shuts his mouth. After a moment he nods.

“Now,” Erwin sighs, standing up again. “We’d better get back.”

Armin looks up. “Both of us?”

“Both of us,” Erwin confirms. He puts a hand over Hanji’s on the bed warmly. “We have a lot of work to do.”

Armin nods, looking over to Hanji with a weak smile. “I’ll come back.”

“Don’t rush,” Hanji smiles back. “Anyways I’m off my ass on morphine right now. For all I know you might not even be here. You look nice in glasses by the way?”

Armin frowns. “What?”

Erwin gets ahold of his shoulder, moving him towards the door. “I wouldn’t press it.”

 

Armin’s not sure that calling a meeting that night was the best idea. It might have been easier to just enter practices tomorrow morning as usual and explain everything before they started, but Erwin insisted this was the best way. And he had a point. Armin had been getting five voicemail every hour and it would be good to address it all at once.

They all looked tired as they sat down in the stadium seats that circled the rehearsal hall, worried, worn. They didn’t speak much, waiting patiently.

Erwin made his way to the front. He had changed since the hospital into simpler, lighter clothing. Armin wondered how long he would stay after they all left, walking through the halls, across the stages, mind turning everything that needed attention over and over again.

“Thank you for coming,” he says. “I know it’s been a stressful day for all of us.”

Levi isn’t there. Armin wonders where he might be. Back at the hospital? He frowns. He should be there. They needed to feel united now more than ever, and his absence wasn’t helping.

“The fire was small, contained,” Erwin continues. “It appears it was just an accident.”

There’s a soft murmur in the crowd. Armin noticed Jean frowning, arms crossed tight in front of his chest. 

“The theatre was damaged by the sprinklers. And it will take a month to get it back to operating condition again.”

A general groan echoes through the space. Connie and Sasha are murmuring close together, Petra and Mike look exhausted, staring blankly at the floor of the rehearsal space.

“In the meantime we will not slow rehearsals. We will not postpone the production or the start of the season.” Erwin says firmly. “This season is important to the theater. I hope that you realize just how important. We cannot afford to slip, we cannot afford to weaken, even if an environment works against us. We will continue, and we will let the art that we represent carry us towards an excellence that has nothing to do with a stage under our feet.”

Next to him Eren feels rigid, face set in that determined scowl he can’t seem to avoid when stress sinks into him. Sometimes Armin wonders if Mikasa picked that up from him or if it was the other way around.

“Hanji is recovering,” Erwin says. “She slipped a disc when she fell and broke an ankle.”

Sounds of disappointment and surprised ripple through the assembly.

“It isn’t serious, and all considered it could have been far worse. She will be back as soon as she can, but we must give her time to recover. And while she is being cared for Armin Arlert will be managing rehearsals.”

Armin feels all eyes shift to him. He sinks a little deeper into his seat and tries not to feel sick.

“You’re all here for a reason,” Erwin says, posture straight and proud. “This theatre would be nothing without all of you and your talent. We are this theatre. And we will make this production something truly extraordinary. We will endure, as the theatre has through the years, it’s a small set back, and we will continue.”

A general sense of conviction settled over him, and he let it sink in, deep and firm.

“Tomorrow. Eight AM. We will start where we left off,” Erwin says, and with that they’re dismissed.

 

“I think we’re all in a pretty serious need of whiskey,” Ymir says, tugging her coat over her shoulders. They’re gathered in the lobby, preparing to head back out into the cold. Everyone seems tired, worn, but far from hopeless. The storm had passed, and now all that was left to do was push on through the damage.

“Second that,” Reiner sighs. “That place over on the square?”

“Yeah, we’ll come,” Jean says, wrapping a scarf around his neck.

“I can’t,” Marco says suddenly.

Jean turns. “What? Why?”

“I, uh,” he blushes, “I have a, um, date.”

Jean looks up sharply.

Sasha laughs. “What? Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Marco shrugs. “Why’s that weird?”

“No, I just, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you date,” Sasha counters.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t.”

“Yeah,” Ymir grins. “Marco’s chest deep in poon.”

“Jesus,” Marco sighs, “look, it’s just a date. And okay, maybe I haven’t dated a lot, but have any of us? I don’t think so. I think we wake up and we practice, and we rehearse, and we eat, and sleep. And maybe that’s not the healthiest lifestyle.”

“Yeah but it’s… sort of the deal,” Connie says.

“Maybe it is,” Marco zips up his coat. “But I’m trying something different, alright?”

“You don’t need our approval,” Krista tries, a small supportive smile on her cheeks.

“I know,” Marco smiles back. 

“Who is it?” Jean asks. He’s suddenly very focused on different ways he can knit his scarf.

“Oh, uh,” Marco furrows his brows. “That girl for the coffee place, you know, the one on the corner?”

Jean nods vaguely. He’s frowning at his scarf. Apparently it’s not behaving the way he wants it to.

“Good luck,” Bertholdt smiles.

“Yeah,” Marco says, “thanks.” He heads for the door, pushing it open with his shoulder and stepping out into the cold. He stops just before he lets the door close. “I won’t be back too late,” he says to Jean.

Jean doesn’t look at him, still consumed with his scarf. “Whatever.” He shrugs.

And then he’s gone.

The rest of them follow his lead eventually, pushing through the doors. It’s even colder now than it has been for weeks. The last weeks of January were always especially sharp, even if the wind wasn’t tearing down the streets with as much vigor.

They say their goodbyes, splintering off into various groups. They all used to walk back together, a tight pack all the way to the dorms. Strange, now, to split apart, all heading off in different directions to new beds and isolated lives. 

The three of them walk close together, shoulders knocking against the others as the cold nips at their cheeks, the ends of their noses, the exposed edges of their ears.

“How’s Hanji?” Mikasa asks after a block or two.

“Fine,” Armin says.

“Really?” Mikasa asks. Her scarf is tied high and tight, voice muffled against it.

Armin sighs. “No.” He focuses on the pavement under their feet: edges of ice trying to invade the sidewalk, dirty hard packed snow, cigarettes tossed aside to cement themselves into the rest of it. “She’s hurt, and I know she’s not a dancer any more, but it’s, its so weird to see her there, all tucked up in a bed like something damaged. It feels like a cage. It’s… I don’t know.”

They’re quiet for another half a block or so.

“Armin,” Eren says finally.

Armin looks over at him. “Yeah?”

“I know this is hard for you,” Eren says. His eyes are tight on the sidewalk in front of them, expression set. “It’s a lot of pressure, a lot to deal with. And I want to let you know I’m not going to make it harder for you.”

“I don’t understand,” Armin tries.

“I know I have been making this... difficult. I’m messing up, not working hard enough, not getting it as easily as I should. And I just want to let you know, that I won’t make this harder for you. I’ll get it. I have to.” 

Armin swallows. He doesn’t know what to say. He suddenly feels impossibly tired.

“Eren,” Mikasa says, voice soft. “You can’t think about it like that. That’s where all of this is coming from. You put so much pressure on yourself.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Eren asks. He isn’t angry, his voice is quiet, crisp in the cold.

Mikasa sighs. “Just… let it happen.”

“That works for you,” Eren says. “It doesn’t work for me. The best I can do is work harder than all of you. That’s what’s worked before. It will work again. I just have to push myself. I know I can do it. I won’t let everyone down.”

Armin knows he should say something, tell him he won’t, somehow make it better. But he’s suddenly not sure how. There’s so much to explain, so many things to solve, and he’s tired. So he says nothing, and in silence, they let their feet carry them back home.


	8. Chapter 8

“What time is it?” Armin yawns against the wall.

“It doesn’t matter,” Eren says firmly. “Let’s go again.”

Mikasa sighs, but she doesn’t protest. He knows she’s getting tired, but she hardly shows it as she moves back to her place on the floor. Eren nods in Armin’s direction and he starts the music again.

Mikasa glides, flowing easily across the floor and towards him. Eren waits, letting his steps move through him rather than forcing them. She slides back into his arms and he spins her through, echoing her pace, easily falling into an melody of movement. His hands catch around her waist and she eases, letting him raise her, her weight trusting, heigh gained and extension perfect. He slides her back down again, letting her spin away.

“How was it?” He asks Armin instantly, turning.

Armin yawns, stopping the stereo. “Good. Really good.”

“Really?” Eren asks. “You’re not just saying that?”

“No,” Armin says, stretching out against the wall. “And I wasn’t ‘just saying it’ last time, or the time before that.”

“I don’t understand…” Eren frowns, “it’s so easy here.”

“That’s because it’s not real,” Mikasa says. “You shouldn’t be practicing with me, Eren. You should be calling Levi.”

Eren frowns. “It’s… I don’t want to bother him.”

“That’s the problem,” Mikasa insists firmly. “He’s supposed to be your partner! You shouldn’t be too afraid to ask him for help.”

“It’s just easier with you,” Eren sighs. “Maybe if I get it down well enough here, I can take that back to practice tomorrow and it will be better there.”

“Maybe,” Armin tries. “But your problem will still be the same. You’re nervous about messing up, over conscious of your movements because you’re dancing with him.”

“How can I not be?” Eren asks.

“I don’t know,” Armin sighs. “I don’t think that's something anyone else can answer.”

“You’re not nervous dancing with him,” Eren says in Mikasa’s direction.

Mikasa shrugs. “Why should I be?”

“You shouldn’t, that’s my point,” Eren continues. “You’re as good as he is.”

“It’s not about that,” Mikasa insists. “It’s not about good or less than that. No one can dance like him. But no one can dance like me, and no one can dance like you either. We each bring something unique that has to stand alone. That’s the only way this works.”

“It’s just easier with you,” Eren says. “Why is that?”

“I trust you,” Mikasa says simply.

Eren frowns. “And he doesn’t.”

Mikasa crosses the floor again, leaning against the barre. “I don’t think he trusts any one.”

“What about the director?” Eren tries.

Armin frowns, staring out blankly across the floor. “I think he’s the last person he trusts right now.”

“He’s angry with him. I know that, but he listens to him in rehearsal. And it was different…” Eren says, “when they were dancing. Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Armin sighs, “it was different.”

“That’s enough for tonight,” Mikasa says with a stretch. “Eren, you know the dance, you know it perfectly, running through it with me isn’t helping any more.”

Eren heads back towards his bag. He knows they’re both right, but he doesn’t know what he can do about it. He doesn’t want to call Levi, he doesn’t want him to have to make up for what he himself lacks. It sounds needy and worthless. If he asks him to stay late, to practice, it’s just detracting from Levi’s life when he isn’t causing any of the problems.

Who knows, maybe tomorrow will be better. 

“Hanji’s back tomorrow?” Eren asks.

“That’s what she said,” Armin answers, pushing the stereo back into place and pulling on his shoes. “She can’t wait.”

“I bet,” Mikasa smiles. 

“I hope I don’t let her down,” Eren says quietly.

Armin steps up next to him, ready to go. “Me too.”

 

The promise of Hanji’s return has the entire company animated with a fresh energy all morning. All of them seem equally determined to get it right, to show her exactly what she’s worked towards and prove that they’ve lived up to all the potential of her vision.

Erwin’s instructions carry easily over everyone as they find their places and make it through one full run first thing. They’ve set up some of the set pieces in the rehearsal space to make up for their inability to get onto the actual stage. There’s a few jagged, stark sliding pieces with the silhouettes of rocky slopes that serve as entry points. Long, thin boards have been secured from the floor to the ceiling, giving the sense of a minimal forest and allowing for the dancing to flit across layered sections of the space. There’s a few simple square shapes that are pulled on and off to form the shape of a house for the first act, designed so they can fall back, dropping silently onto the stage to reveal the “forest” behind.

They’d decided long ago to not put Levi on wires. Some productions took the ethereal to that level, elevating the sylph with special effects and tools, but Erwin insisted that this was a raw production before everything else, and Levi’s height and weightlessness in his dancing could speak for itself.

It was a different experience with Erwin actually directing now. When it had just been them and Hanji for those first weeks he’d slipped in and out, absorbing and adding a few thoughts. But now he was managing the entire production. Erwin had a quiet style, listening more than controlling. He took it all in, made a few very specific requests, and asked for a repeat. It was iterative, sharp, logical, and all tied together with a theme he reminded them of calmly. 

Even in the make-shift space ,the production really did feel like it was starting to pull together. Armin had to step out and call Hanji a couple times a day when his recovered notes failed him, just to confirm a step or a change in the arrangements, but overall, it was actually coming together.

Now Eren knew he just had to follow through. He was getting better, he could feel that, but it was still lacking. Erwin had a set expression whenever he observed him dancing, focused, watching hard and careful as if looking for answers. So each day all Eren tried to do was provide them, but his expression never changed.

They’re just moving into the dance of the sylphs when the back door shoves open. Mike holds it ajar and moves aside, letting Hanji swing through, body supported on crutches. Instantly the group’s attention breaks, all turning towards her with grins and applause.

“No, no,” she waves a hand at them. “Don’t let me stop you!” But the clapping continues. Reiner whistles through his fingers.

“Jesus,” Hanji says in Erwin’s direction, letting Mike help her down the steps. “Don’t you have any control over them.”

He smiles. “Very little.”

She supports herself on Mike’s arm and settles down into a seat at the front with just a little wince.

Levi’s already next to her, arms crossed, frowning down at her leg. “You’re alright?”

She grins back at him. “Concerned?”

“No,” Levi huffs. “You just look like an asshole trying to move on those crutches. I hope we don’t have to witness it too much longer.”

“They’re actually kinda fun,” she grins, twirling one in her hand. “Anyways, I think it’s activating new synapses. You know, like when you try eating with the wrong hand?”

“No one does that,” Levi says.

“Well, then ‘no one’ is missing out,” Hanji says. “Better for the brain than fucking Sudoku, anyways.” 

“How’s the back?” Erwin asks. “Surgery?”

“Don’t think so,” Hanji says. “It hardly hurts now, so that’s a good sign. Now it’s mostly just the ankle.”

Petra’s staring down at the ankle with a ferocious level of concern. “I can’t believe it. It’s horrible.”

“It’s fine, really,” Hanji smiles back at her supportively. “But enough fawning, seriously, I want to see what you’ve all been up to.”

“Not much,” Levi snorts.

She punches his arm.

“For a substitution the set looks pretty good,” she says looking up and around at it.

“We’ll move the pieces upstairs when we can,” Erwin says.

“Shouldn’t be long now?” She asks.

“A week, maybe a two.”

Hanji frowns. “We’re getting pretty close, you know.”

“I know.” Erwin claps his hands together once, turning to face them all. “Let’s take it from the top, give Madame Zoe a look at what we’ve been up to.”

The dancers shift instantly, falling back to their seats or their places on the stage.

Eren swallows, heading for the chair in the center of the stage. He sits down, takes a deep breathe, and closes his eyes.

Erwin doesn’t stop them once. It takes them over ninety minutes from start to end. Too long still, but hopefully the stage will help with that in a week or two. Eren’s breathing heavy by the end of it, collapsed against the comforting cold floor, alone, in his final pose. Hanji breaks into applause, and the rest of the staff sitting with her takes the cue, joining in.

“You’ve been busy,” Hanji notes.

“Do you like it?” Armin asks instantly.

Hanji smiles back to him. “Yes. How about you.”

He furrows his brow, leaning back in his seat. “It’s coming together.”

“Definitely,” Hanji agrees. “You’ve gotten the blocking cleaned up. The staging is really coming together. It’s clean, simple. The dancing really shines.”

Erwin nods with quiet acknowledgment. “We adjusted the final wedding party entrance.”

“Yes, it’s better now,” Hanji says. “Moving diagonally across once is better than weaving through the trees. No need to salt the wound.”

Erwin makes a noise of agreement. 

“Thank you,” Erwin says to the group at large. “We’ll break for lunch, then get back to it.”

The cast ripples outwards, moving towards their coats, bags, shoes, talking back and forth with bright voices, upbeat and pleasant.

Mikasa’s waving at him, pulling her coat on in the back rows by Krista and Sasha. Eren smiles back.

He glances over at the directors for a moment. Hanji is looking at him, eyes focused, expression unreadable. She nudges at Erwin and he leans over. She speaks to him quickly, quietly. Erwin glances at him as well.

Eren looks away, making his way up the rows to meet the others, and trying to push the heavy weight out of his stomach before it settles in any deeper. 

When they get back after lunch they run it, again, and again, straight through. Hanji doesn’t say a word all the while, simply watching the steps with intense focus one run, leaning back and letting it wash over her another, drifting back and forth for the next. Between run-throughs she’ll lean over to Armin, note a few things and he’ll jot them down in the notes. Erwin’s equally silent, keeping records with Mike on a number of points but never stopping the flow, simply letting them carry through the motions time and time again. It’s dark out by the time they finish the third run and half the cast is sagging in their shoes, but it’s feeling better for it. 

“Let’s break,” Erwin calls out, sending them all falling back towards the seats, reaching for water bottles and attempting to stretch out the exhaustion.

“I wasn’t sure I was going to make it through that one,” Connie groans, collapsing into a seat.

“You kidding?” Jean tugs to top off his water bottle. “I only learned the wedding party dances last week. I think I missed half the steps up there.”

“You didn’t,” Krista smiles. “You did better than the rest of us.”

“I seriously doubt it,” he answers.

“Eren,” a voice calls. Eren turns. It’s the director. He motions him closer. 

Eren swallows, heading in his direction. Hanji’s watching him approach, expression calculating. There’s a tightness behind his chest that he can’t seem to get rid of. They could still get rid of him, couldn’t they? He can almost hear the words now. _“We’re sorry. We made a mistake.”_ That’s all it would take.

Armin’s still sitting next to Hanji, looking up at him pleasantly as he approaches. It helps, even if just a bit.

“It’s looking better Eren,” Hanji smiles. 

The knot loosens. Slightly. “Thank you.”

“You’ve been working very hard, I can see that,” she continues.

“It’s important,” Eren answers.

“Armin’s telling us you’ve been up late, practicing with Mikasa,” Hanji says, voice a little quieter.

Eren’s mouth feels dry. He’s not sure wether he should be embarrassed or not. “That’s right. It makes it easier. I think it’s helping.”

Hanji’s watching him carefully, as if she’s trying to unravel something under his skin.

“Eren,” Erwin says, standing up beside them. “Would you mind staying for a while? I’d like to go over a few things with you.”

“What? The dances?”

“Yes.”

Eren glances over his shoulder. Levi’s already packed his rehearsal bag, walking with Petra towards the door. “Levi’s not staying?”

“No,” Erwin says.

Eren nods. “Of course I can stay. Whatever you need.”

Erwin smiles at him, slight, firm. “Good.”

He’s ready to settle in and wait for everyone else to leave, but Erwin heads for the door, so he follows him. He glances over his shoulder back to Armin as they go, but Armin just smiles, so Eren smiles back, and follows the director out of the hall.

“I thought we’d use one of the practice rooms,” Erwin says over his shoulder.

“Sure,” Eren answers. He’s torn between trying to predict exactly what’s going to happen or simply let things unfold. He’s not sure the nerves in his stomach will thank him for either.

It takes five minutes or so to find a room, and then Erwin’s pushing open and door, letting Eren enter first. It’s empty. Quiet. Erwin flicks on the switch, track lights flutter into life and their own reflections suddenly mimicking them in the mirror covering the opposite wall. 

Erwin crosses the room, taking his phone out of his pocket and settling it into the speakers in the corner. Eren leans back against the barre, stretching his legs and trying to convince his body it can keep moving for a few hours longer.

“What did you want to go over?” He asks. 

Erwin’s back is still turned. “I’d like to talk first, if that’s alright?”

Eren swallows. “I… I know that I’m still not getting it. But it’s getting better, and I think if I just keep pushing hard I will get there in time. I have to. I will.”

Erwin turns back to him. There’s a folding chair by the wall and he nods towards it. “Why don’t you sit down. You’ve been working hard today.”

Eren evaluates the chair for a moment. He has the strange sense that if he sits down it’s going to snap in on him like a bear trap, but he sits anyways, and shockingly enough it’s just a chair, a chair that feels particularly awesome after four hours of run-throughs.

Erwin leans back against the small piano in the corner. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, pushes a hand through his hair. “Long day.”

Eren nods, feet tapping under him. “Yeah.”

“Eren—” Erwin starts.

“It’s okay,” Eren breaks in suddenly. His heart is beating in his chest but he convinces it to be quiet, shutting his eyes for a moment. “I understand. It’s not right. Still. And if you have to give it to someone else, well, I, that would be… I’d understand.”

Erwin frowns. “Why would I do that?”

Eren’s shoulders shift awkward and tight against the chair, arms tight across his chest. “It’s not right. I’m not doing the job I need to. That’s why people get fired, isn’t it?”

“Eren,” Erwin says seriously. “If I were going to fire you, we’d be in my office right now.”

Eren’s not sure whether to laugh or thank him. He settles for staring at the floor.

“You’re doing well,” Erwin says. “Better than we expected, honestly.”

Eren looks up at him in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Erwin answers. “But you’re right, there’s still problems. We have to fix them. This show is too important for all of us not to.”

Eren turns to him, suddenly hating the fact that he’s sitting down. “I want to, I really do, I’m trying—“

“I know, I know,” Erwin cuts in. “But you have to step back. You can’t be staying up past midnight and coming into rehearsals before seven. It’s not good for you, and it’s not good for the production. You’ll exhaust yourself. We have two months of regular shows, and there will be nothing left of you by the end of it.”

Eren feels the floor of the practice space under his feet, the ache of his toes, the tautness of his arches. “This is all I am. As long as I’m left, it will be here.”

Erwin looks back at him, and there’s something in the blue stare that’s suddenly different, soft, even kind. He smiles, tired, and more sincere than Eren’s seen him since they started this production. 

“I know that too,” Erwin says. “And trust me, I understand the feeling very well.”

Eren feels the weight in his stomach lighten. His heart isn’t beating as hard now; his shoulders relax against the metal frame of the chair and he leans back, looking at their reflection. He looks tired. They both do. 

“Do you know how Levi became a dancer at this theater?” Erwin asks.

Eren frowns. He doesn’t. There’s not much anyone knows about Levi’s past. He’d tried to uncover it when he was younger, attempted to squeeze out details so he could mimic them in his own growth, but there’d been nothing.

“He didn’t want to be a ballet dancer,” Erwin continues.

“What did he want to be?” Eren asks.

Erwin shrugs. “I don’t know. I think you have to have a certain level of security to ‘want to be’ anything. For some people wants have a different meaning, a meaning drowned out under the daily pressure of needs.”

Eren furrows his brow. “What sort of needs?”

“Food,” Erwin suggests, “safety. A place to sleep. Maybe even a home.”

Eren stares up at him. “He didn’t have a home?”

“I don’t know, honestly,” Erwin says. “I just know I was walking later than I should have been one night, in a part of the city I should have avoided. I had been out with a group, socialites, dancers, and I suddenly realized I had never been so bored in my entire life. So, I got up, and I left, and I walked further than I should have without thinking.”

Erwin’s face has taken on a distant, wistful expression, his weight collapsed back on the piano with a casual air Eren wasn’t familiar with.

“Did you meet Levi?” Eren asks.

Erwin smiles. “He mugged me.”

“He… what?!” Eren gapes.

“I turned down an alley and suddenly there was a knife against my back.”

“Holy shit…” Eren says without thinking. “What did you do?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly sure what to do. The voice told me to move, so I did. It directed me towards the back of the alley, and then had me turn. The mugger told me to give him my wallet. So I did. And then I did something really very stupid.”

Eren’s focus is dead set. “What?”

“I hit him.”

“But he had a knife!”

Erwin shrugs. “Like I said: stupid. When he took my wallet and moved to put it in his coat, I took my chance. I hit him and I kicked the knife out of his hand.”

“But you’re a dancer!” Eren insists. “What if you’d cut yourself?”

“I didn’t really think about it, funny enough,” Erwin shrugs. “I think I was a bit drunk, and a bit young, and actually stupid enough to be upset that someone a foot shorter than me was going to steal my wallet.”

“So,” Eren asks. “What did he do?”

“He kicked me back. And that’s when everything changed.”

Eren stared. “What? Why?”

“He kicked my jaw. And he kicked it hard enough to knock me back against the wall. Someone a foot shorter than me, managed to extend their leg far enough to practically take my teeth out. I’m lucky I didn’t bite off my tongue, honestly.”

“Jesus…” Eren manages, leaning forward eagerly. “Then what?”

“Then he ran.”

“…And?”

“And I chased him.”

“Why?!”

Erwin laughs, low and pleasant. “I honestly have no fucking idea.”

“Did you catch him?”

“No,” Erwin sighs. “But it was a pretty good chase. I lasted about two hours.”

“Two hours!”

“And by the time he finally vanished up a fire escape I was convinced.”

“Convinced of what?” Eren asks.

Erwin smiles at him, eyes bright. “That I could look for a hundred years, practice for just as many, and I’d never see anyone else move like him.”

Eren almost sighs, but he manages to keep it contained. Barely.

“It was amazing, really. It’s almost a shame we can’t fit city alleys on the stage.” Erwin continues, “He just… melted, right through everything. It was impossible, graceful, and insane as it seems all I could see was a dance. I know it wasn’t particularly beautiful, at least not on my end. I was panting, and sweating, covered in street water and sludge, keeping up with him on drunken determination alone, with the help of a body I’d spent years making demands on. But, in my mind, on that night, it was so much more: it was every chase I’d ever seen on the stage, every flight, every pursuit, and he was this sudden impossibility that I had to understand.”

Eren frowns. “But… he got away in the end. You lost him.”

“I did.” Erwin says.

“So, how’d you find him again?”

“Well, after that night I miraculously found my way back to my apartment. It was my third year in the company, and I was already reasonably successful. I was in rehearsal all day, but every night I went back to that corner, and waited to see if he’d try again.”

“Try what?” Eren gapes. “To mug you?!”

“Sure,” Erwin shrugs. “I didn’t have many other options. I was obsessed. I could stop thinking about the way he’d moved: the height, the lift, the grace. I had to confront it.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t stab you,” Eren says, imagining Levi with a stalker and instantly feeling serious concern for whoever was unlucky enough to think they’d get away with that.

“It was very tempting I’m sure,” Erwin says, “I was there every night for a month.”

Eren can’t believe he’s actually hearing this. It’s as if every poster, every image he’s ever had of the two of them is being opened up, peeled apart to reveal these impossibilities, that honestly seem more like examples of seriously irresponsible behavior at the start of a public service announcement than anything else. 

“And then, one day, he was just there,” Erwin says. “I looked down, and he was standing in front of me.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked if I was mentally challenged, or if I got off on the idea of being cornered in allies and threatened with pointy things.”

“… Did you?” Eren asks before he means to.

Erwin laughs. “If I did, I certainly didn’t admit it. I told him I wanted to take him somewhere. He said he didn’t go places with anyone. And I told him if he went with me, just this once, I wouldn’t come back there. Ever.”

Erwin’s look is more distant than even, focused somewhere far away, small smile still on his lips.

“He didn’t say anything for a while, and then finally he handed my wallet back. There wasn’t any cash, but everything else was there. He said he’d seen posters around the city, and he wasn’t sure if they were me, but he was sure now.”

“What posters?” Eren asks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Erwin sighs, “Don Quixote I think?”

Eren nods. He remembers that poster exactly, perfectly, even now. Erwin had been young then. Just a handful of years older than Eren was now.

“He went with me,” Erwin says. “I’m honestly still shocked that he did.”

“Where’d you take him?”

“Here,” Erwin says. “I brought him here. Right to this room.” He looks down at the floor. He’s kicked off his shoes, one socked foot tracing light patterns over the boards.

“I asked if he wanted to try dancing. He said he’d rather have his eyes taken out with a wine opener. But I ignored him, and I ran through a few routines. He didn’t leave. He waited. Watching. I stopped after a while. I took him up to the front and I gave him a season ticket, a booth, so he wouldn’t have to worry about being conspicuous with the proper clothing. I said if he ever wanted to try he could meet me here after any show.”

Erwin leans forward, righting himself and stepping around the back of the piano, fingers lightly tracing a few of the keys.

“He came to the shows. Almost all of them. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if he was there. The booth was dark from the stage, but I had a feeling he was all the same. And every night I waited here to see if he’d show up.”

“And he did,” Eren smiles.

“It took a month,” Erwin says, “but, yes, he did.”

Eren’s still trying to put things into place properly. “But that means… how old was he?”

Erwin shrugs. “Not sure exactly. I think… eighteen?”

Eren stares. “… He started dancing when he was _eighteen_.” 

Eren had started when he was six. He didn’t know anyone, anyone, who had started later than fifteen. 

Erwin nods. “It was just us for two years, then he entered the company and we worked within it for four. And then: he was Levi Laurent.”

“It’s impossible,” Eren sighs, his hands have fallen back into his lap, posture slumped against the chair. “He’s impossible.” Eren looks up at him. “Why are you telling me this?”

“In many ways Levi has the advantage of disinterest.” Erwin answers. “This was never his dream. This was never his ambition. He stumbled into this, and it worked for him. He’s never felt the need to prove anything to anyone.”

Eren leans forward, arms resting on his knees, trying his best to understand.

“He can dance the way he does because of an immense skill, yes,” Erwin says. “But he can also do so because of a complete lack of self-consciousness. It makes him intimidating to work with.”

Eren nods, knitting his fingers together.

“But you have something he’s never had,” Erwin says. “And you shouldn’t forget that.”

“What’s that?” Eren asks.

“Drive.”

Eren laughs. “What good’s drive if it doesn’t turn into anything.”

“Levi could never play James,” Erwin says. “You do realize that?”

Eren stares. “I don’t… why?”

“Levi will never want the way you want. He’ll never want the the way I wanted. Or the way I’m guessing you have since you were very young, if you’re anything like me, which I have to say, I suspect you are.” Erwin says. “You can’t _want_ something that comes so naturally to you. Dancing has become like breathing to Levi, and he’ll never have the energy, the fire, of someone who knows what it feels like to gasp for each breathe with every ounce of strength you have.”

Eren looks back at his reflection across the room. The reflection looks back at him, dark hair, large eyes, jaw set. Determined, and far from lost. “I understand.”

“Good,” Erwin smiles. He crosses in front of the piano again, turning on the music. “Now, I know that I told you not to stay up late any more, but we are going to run through your steps. Just yours. Just a few times. I want to work with you on your own motions, and then tomorrow we’ll see how we are. Alright?”

Eren smiles, standing. His legs are still sore but he isn’t as tired as he had been. “Alright.”

 

When Eren wakes up the sun is bright on his face. He sits up instantly. He can’t remember the last time he woke up when it was this light out. His hand scrambles at his bedside table, scooping up his phone.

_10:34 AM_

Shit. He practically falls out of bed, tugging on his jeans. 

“Armin! Mikasa!” He yells.

“Eren?” Armin’s voice yells back. “It’s alright. Rehearsal’s cancelled.”

Eren slows, sweatshirt half over his head. “…What? Why?”

“Um.” Armin’s voice quiets from behind the door. “Maybe you should just come out here.”

Eren frowns, pulling his sweatshirt on and pushing out out his bedroom.

Mikasa and Armin are sitting around the little table they’ve been using for meals. They have coffee, some food. There’s a newspaper on the table.

“What’s wrong? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“We turned off your alarm,” Mikasa says. “You’ve been up so late we thought you could use the rest.”

“Why’s rehearsal cancelled?”

Armin and Mikasa glance at each other warily.

“What?!” Eren insists. 

They both look at the newspaper. He follows the look.

“Eren,” Mikasa starts. “I don’t want you to take this too seriously. It’s garbage, everyone’s saying so, sensationalist and—“

Eren snatches the newspaper off the table. It’s the Times, and it’s open to the arts section.

The headline reads: “The Fall of the Titens” and the subtitle “How Titen Ballet’s Cursed Production, Diva Mannerisms, and Inexperienced Hopes, Could Mean the End of the Greatest Classic Institution”

Eren stares. He makes himself sit down in an open chair and keeps reading.

_“It was an ominous start to the first rehearsals for Titen Theater’s spring show of La Sylphide: sprinklers coming to life after an unexplained fire backstage, dousing the entire cast and crew before they even started practice, and damaging the theatre enough to require weeks of repair. The incident has only led to the suspicion for some cast members that the production is “cursed” from the start and will result in nothing good for the theater or those involved. The curse seems to be intent on sticking around, hospitalized the lead choreographer with a broken ankle, and forcing the company to scramble to meet the stakes that have been raised by a failing reputation and a diminishing talent pool._

_What’s more surprising than the conditions that have befallen the attempted production, are the circumstances that have spawned it. It has come to this reporter’s attention (through several sources inside the theater itself) that the production was born out of a lover’s spat between Theatrical Director Erwin Smith and Lead Danseur Levi Laurent, who, according to internal rumor, have been in an undisclosed relationship for a number of years. The classical role of the Sylph was thrust upon Levi, causing a rift between himself and Director Smith. According to our sources, the two have been at odds since the production began, and Levi only accepted the role under the condition that an inexperienced dancer play opposite, so as not to risk his reputation._

_Levi Laurent has had given out the impression of a cold hearted Diva for years in the theater, but it seems his ego has reached new levels with this latest insistence. The young dancer who is set to play James in the upcoming season, Eren Jaeger, seems to be the greatest embodiment of the production’s curse. Our sources have informed us that he is struggling to maintain an even moderately acceptable level of performance, and simply cannot stand up to the requirements of the production. Perhaps this was Levi’s goal from the beginning, but whatever the reason for this absurd and irresponsible casting decision, it seems that emotion and petty quarrels are playing the trump card for Titen Theater this season.”_

It goes on, but Eren’s stopped reading.

Mikasa and Armin are watching him, expressions set with concern. Slowly, Eren puts the paper back down onto the table. His mouth is dry, hands heavy. 

He closes his eyes. “I think I’m going to be sick.”


	9. Chapter 9

The theater seemed packed half an hour ago, now it’s almost bursting. All around them sits the company, and not just the dancers, everyone. There’s the orchestra off to the left, the electricians in the back, the HR team right in front, everyone and anyone connected with the theatre, filling the seats that spread out in front of the stage with tenuous silence and wary glances.

The space is finally dried out and refinished where it needed it, all pulled together again. It was strange to be sitting in the theatre that looked ready as anything to put on a show, with the staff in the exact opposite condition.

Jean glances around to make sure he hadn’t missed anyone when he came in. Marco is next to him looking like most of them do: distant, anxious, tired. In the rows in front of them the rest of the new hires are spread out, Eren sitting between Armin and Mikasa, looking like he hasn’t slept since the paper hit the street. Up towards the front Levi’s between Hanji and Petra, Mike behind them, and all the way at the back Jean sees Pixus enter and take a seat quietly out of sight.

It’s the first time they’ve been back since the news, and tension fills the space around them like a heavy fog. They’re here to rehearse, to resume properly where they’ve left off, but first, the director’s called them all together to “discuss matters”. Jean doesn’t see the paper on anyone, but then again it didn’t need to be. It was easy enough to see the words of the article written on the faces of the crowd, looming over them all.

It hasn’t been the best week of his life if he’s honest. The same could likely be said for most everyone in the room. Judging by Eren’s face it was closing in fast on the single worst week of his. 

Marco hadn’t been around much at all, which didn’t help anything. He’s been out with the girl from the coffee place, seeking to get away from the gloom and misery surrounding everyone else, which sure was understandable, but it left Jean alone, searching for someone else to bang his confusion against. It was a strange conversation to solicit though, and in the end he was left staring at his phone waiting for someone else to call and save him the trouble, which didn’t bring any notable results.

“Apologies for the delay,” a voice sounds from the stage.

Jean turns with the rest of them. The director’s made his way to center stage. He’d thought that Eren looked rough, but it’s nothing compared to Erwin. There’s a shadow of stubble over his cheeks, dark circles crowding under his eyes. He’s still dressed relatively well but there was a worn look to his clothes, as if he may have collapsed at his desk in them the night before. But despite all of that he doesn’t look tired. He looks furious. His jaw’s set, a hard unflinching line, eyes focused, not on the crowd, but rather on the theatre itself as a whole.

“I’m sure everyone’s aware of why we’ve called this meeting,” Erwin says. His voice is rough, quieter than it has been, as if he’s trying to keep ahold of it.

“It has been a challenging number of days,” Erwin continues, “and I would like to stand here and tell you that the problem has been addressed and that we can all move on easily from here. But that wouldn’t be true. Unfortunately, we have more challenging days ahead of us.”

Jean shifts in his seat. He glances at Marco. He’s not looking at the stage, his hands are knitted in his lap.

“The truth is there’s really only one aspect of this situation that’s truly regrettable,” Erwin says, voice stony. “Sensationalists will always seek to drag personal details into a profitable forum, that’s to be expected. Speculation will always arise when an institution takes a novel approach to a traditional medium. None of that is particularly shocking, none of it a cause for unique distress or a disruption to our lives and the work we do.”

His eyes shift, passing over the crowd spread across the theatre with solemnity. Jean swallows.

“None of that matters,” Erwin says. “All of it could be dealt it, lived with. No, what’s truly shocking is that this article was supported, informed, by a member of this theatre, likely someone sitting in this very theater right now.”

Jean can’t help letting himself glance around the space and the people filling it. Many of them were doing the same thing, nervous energy instantly pouring into the space. Of course it was true, they all realized that, but none of them had summoned the guts to say it yet, and now the certainty lay around them heavy and present.

“It’s a struggle…” Erwin begins. His voice falls off for a moment and then rises again. “It’s a struggle to imagine anyone here wishing to intentionally inflict such damage to this institution. I know that someone of you may have an apathetic relationship with this theatre and what it provides. You might see it as a job, as a convenience, and nothing more.”

Jean shifts where he’s sitting, across the aisle towards the front he can see Levi’s arms cross tighter in front of his chest, eyes drifting down to his own shoes on the seat in front rather than Erwin.

“And frankly, I don’t care,” Erwin says, voice hard and worn. “I don’t care if you can’t see everything that this place provides. I don’t care if you are too self obsessed, too disconnect to see what this theatre means, has meant, and will mean to dancers and ballet for generations to come. But the truth is, it is so much more than that. This theatre represents and opportunity, a chance, for thousands. I would ask all of you to remember the feeling of stepping onto this stage for the first time, the feeling glowing beneath all other layers of ambivalence and apathy. I know that’s something that all of us share. That is what this theatre represents, the chance to give anyone who strives no matter where they begin, the chance for that feeling. This theatre is art before all else, and we are fortunate, incredibly fortunate to be able to give that to the world, to let our days fill with such a pursuit. This theatre is what allows that to take place. This place is more than a pretension, more than an institution. It’s an opportunity, one that should be treasured and never taken lightly.”

No one is glancing around any longer, their attention is centered, focused firmly on Erwin’s words.

“We have all made sacrifices to maintain this place, because of that fact,” Erwin says. “We’ve sacrificed for the opportunity it allows for and the desire for those opportunities to be available into the future. This is a privilege, a responsibility. And none of you should forget that.”

He steps further down stage, lifting his chin, straightening his posture. “We will move forward with the production. I have no doubt that this company, and all of you, will be able to produce something truly unique and worthy of the reputation this theatre has earned for itself.”

His stare tightens as he looks out over them. “But do not doubt that every possible action is being taken to reveal the individual who made this article possible, and if they do not come forward on their own, we will be pursuing legal action in lieu of a breach of contract in addition to the loss of any position they hold here.”

He nods once. “Thank you.” 

And with that he leaves the stage. 

The rehearsal goes fairly well afterwards, considering everything. The mood is low, there isn’t much more to be expected, but they’re all eager to get back to it and the energy serves them well. Mikasa’s on mark perfectly with hardly any distraction to her movements. But Levi and Eren are a different matter entirely. Eren’s focus is so intense it’s suddenly as if he doesn’t see the rest of them. And Levi’s distracted, his steps are there but he isn’t, and he hardly speaks to anyone, staring off into space with a dejected thoughtfulness throughout the runs.

By the time two run throughs with stops begin to come to a close they’ve all fallen back together, assembling their bags and taking final stretches. Levi slunk out the back alone almost instantly, and Petra’s no where to be seen, leaving just their old group in a small gathering off the floor. 

Jean kneels down by Marco’s side, gathering up his own bag. He glances over to see Eren sitting in the front row, still staring at the stage. He isn’t moving, simply sitting, slumped, still. Jean wonders if he’s trying to imagine himself up there, get some idea of what it might look like for everyone soon enough. He wonders how afraid he is. He doesn’t blame him. He’d be fucking terrified. 

“I might be back late tonight,” Marco says.

Jean looks up at him. “Oh yeah, what’s up?”

“I was going to go out. With Kira,” he answers. He isn’t looking at him, adjusting his bag over his shoulder.

“Right, sure,” Jean says. “What are you going to do?” And _shit_ , that came out wrong.

Marco shrugs, blushing just enough to notice. “Uh, not sure. Go out. Maybe to that bar down by the square.”

“Oh yeah?” Jean knows he shouldn’t do it, he knows he should just let it go, head back alone, get a good night’s sleep and wake up ready for rehearsal in the morning. But he hasn’t seen him in too long. It doesn’t even feel like they live together these days, and that’s let an anger linger in his gut he can’t quite let that slide.

He raises his voice just enough. “It’s a good idea. I know I sure could use a drink.”

Instantly Ymir’s turning. “Who’s getting drinks?”

“Oh,” Jean mocks surprise. “Marco was going to go out.”

“You guys are going out?” Connie asks, turning with wide hopeful eyes.

“I’d love a drink,” Sasha sighs.

“Second that,” Reiner echoes.

“I think we all might need one after the week we’ve had,” Armin says, leaning back in the seat next to Eren.

Jean looks up at Marco helplessly. “Oh shit, I didn’t…”

Marco smiles. “It’s alright. Seriously. We’ll all go. I don’t mind.”

“Why would you?” Ymir asks, tossing her bag over her shoulder.

“I’m just meeting my girlfriend there.”

Girlfriend. That’s new. What has it been? Two weeks. No, that isn’t right… two months maybe? Christ, this production really is making everything blur together into one messy pile.

Ymir raises an eyebrow at him. “Seriously?” She glances at Jean. “A girlfriend?”

“So what?” Jean huffs, standing with his own duffle. “Let’s just go.”

They leave the theater to itself, waiting until it’s needed again, the ominous glow of the emergency lights the only luminance left behind.

 

Jean’s starting to wonder after the third drink if a bar was actually the best idea. As soon as they were through the door Reiner and Ymir had shots for all of them. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate it, and it certainly wasn’t that he didn’t _need_ one, because god he really did, it was more that the world did move on even if they might not want it to, and Eren swallowing two pints in the first half hour might not have been the best solution to any of their issues.

“Here she is,” Marco smiles.

Jean looks up from the counter, trying to filter through the noise around them. “What?”

“Hey, Kira, over here!” Marco’s waving.

Fuck. He’d almost forgotten.

A smiling face bobs through the crowd, coming to stand next to them. Jean takes her in warily as Marco gives her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He remembers her from the coffee-shop on the corner. She’s taller, about the same height as him. Short hair. Pretty. A coat that’s too big for her.

“You must be Jean,” she says, reaching out a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Jean takes it. “All shit I’m sure.” And that would probably be funnier if he was smiling.

Marco glares at him. “This is Kira.”

Jean glares back. “Yeah. I see that. Hi, Kira.”

The girl laughs. “Yeah: hi, Jean,” she returns sarcastically, apparently too good natured to notice his bitter mood, or maybe she’s just immune to that sort of thing like Marco sometimes seemed to be.

“Let’s get you a drink,” Marco smiles, sliding out of his seat and waving at the distant bartender. “I think they’ve forgotten us down here, we’ll try the other side.”

“Roger,” the girl agrees, and together they vanish into the crowd.

“Girlfriend, huh?” A voice at his elbow says.

Jean turns. Armin has slid into the seat neat to him, Krista on the other side. 

“I guess so,” Jean says, taking another, longer, sip of his beer.

“How long’s that been going on?” Krista asks, leaning back to try and see them through the crowd.

Jean shrugs. “I don’t know. Seriously. My whole sense of reality is warped around the fucking production.”

“Tell me about it,” Krista sighs. “I never know what’s going to happen. It seems like every single day there’s something else. And that speech the Director made this morning… I can’t imagine anyone hurting the theatre like that.”

“Well, someone has,” Jean said.

“I know, I know, but the way he talks about it, really makes you understand. I mean he’s given a lot to this place, and it’s not all about fame and glory. He really believes in it.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” Armin asks.

“Maybe because it’s just ballet,” Jean shrugs.

Armin levels a stern look at him. “You don’t think that. So, don’t pretend to.”

Jean sighs, spinning around in his seat. “What makes you so sure? I could think it. Couldn’t it be true?”

“You’re not that cynical,” Armin says sharply. “Stop pretending you are. You aren’t impressing anyone.”

Jean can’t help being surprised. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

“I’m just tired of people pretending they don’t care,” Armin sighs, leaning forward on his elbows. “This matters. It gives something to people. It gives something to us. It’s more than ‘just ballet’. It’s a community, and we’re a part of it.”

“How’s the board taking the article?” Krista asks hesitantly.

Armin leans heavy on his hand. “Hanji says not well. No one’s talking about it on the floor but we’ve lost about a third of our sponsors already.”

“Are you serious?” Krista gapes. “Oh my god, what does that mean?”

Jean suddenly feels cold. They all worked so hard to get here, every day for years, and now it might all just crumble away before they get one chance to make it their own. Perfect. Fucking perfect.

“The theater’s in trouble for sure,” Armin says. “But that’s not new. The Director knows that. Those sponsors are old money, and they aren’t what the theatre need to grow with the future.”

“Still…” Krista says. “That’s a blow, it must put some pressure on. How do they make up for that?”

Armin swallows. “Well, they need attention. And ticket sales. So, basically, if this show fails, the theatre fails.”

“Jesus,” Jean murmurs. He leans back on his elbows against the bar, looking around at everyone around them. It’s easy enough to pick out their friends. Sasha, Connie, Reiner, and Bertholdt have taken up their own booth. They looked tired, but there are smiles, fragile and hesitant. Ymir’s buying Eren another round which was definitely not a good idea. Mikasa is sitting alone, over in one corner. Jean focuses on her. Off to the left he hears Marco laughing and what must be Kira’s voice joining him.

“‘Scuse me,” he manages. He lifts himself off the bar and heads in Mikasa’s direction. He doesn’t get half way there before Annie comes back with a drink for each of them and he swears internally. But it’s too late to stop walking now.

He comes to an awkward stop. “Hey.”

Annie and Mikasa acknowledging him with a nod. 

Jean settles for leaning against the nearest table. He tries to think of something clever to say.

“How’s Eren?” Yeah. Very clever. Talking about other men is always interesting.

Mikasa frowns into her drink. “Good. Considering.”

Annie stare across the room, chin lifted slightly, eyes steady. “He doesn’t look good.”

“He’s still here. He’s hitting his steps. He’s fine. He’ll be fine,” Mikasa says as if it’s a mantra. There’s a small line of worry etched in her forehead. Jean’s not sure he’s ever seen her so distracted. 

“Are you sure?” Annie asks after a moment.

Mikasa’s quiet for a long while. “No,” she says finally. “I’m not.”

Jean sighs, “I wouldn’t be. That’s for sure.”

“Neither would I,” Annie confirms.

“I don’t know what everyone expects of him,” Mikasa starts defensively. “They pushed this on him. None of us expected it. It’s fine for Levi and even for Erwin to take this shit. They have reputations, history. But Eren has nothing now but this.”

“I don’t know if it’s ‘fine’ for them exactly…” Jean starts.

“They have money. They have a standing. People will read that article and know them and have their own opinions. Eren gets none of that advantage.”

“Well, he does get something,” Annie says.

“What’s that?” Jean asks.

Annie leans back against the wall, arms crossing in front of her chest. “He’s young. He’s unknown. He could just walk away.”

Jean stares at her. Mikasa’s head has shot up. “What?”

Annie takes another sip of her drink. It’s a long one. Jean suddenly realizes he’s seen her down at least six since they’ve been there. He wonders how many she’s had. She’s leaning a little too heavily on the wall and her tongue sounds clumsier than usual.

“Look at Levi, at Erwin,” Annie says. “Do they look happy?”

Mikasa frowns. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s a simple question,” Annie says. “Do they look happy?”

“They have jobs they love.”

Annie snorts. “Really? Is that how people look coming to work every day to do something they love?”

“It’s not that,” Jean suddenly adds. “They’re… there’s other factors at play there.”

“What? Like their ‘secret romance’?” Annie continues. “How happy would you be never talking about your relationship? Would you like hiding it from your work, from your life, because of the harm it could do? Would a job be worth that? Ever?”

Mikasa’s watching her very carefully. “How did you know they were in a relationship?”

“I thought it was obvious,” Annie says flatly. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“No,” Jean answers. “No, alright, they don’t seem happy. But that doesn’t mean—“

“What? That they are?” Annie quips, one eyebrow lifting coldly. She finishes her drink, but keeps her fingers around it, eyes drifting on the empty air. “They’re not happy. And you know why? Because that’s what this job, this place does to people: it eats them alive, soul and body. The dream is something bright and soft. You sit in the audience as a child, and you see these works of art, moving like air, like angels. It’s impossible you think. But maybe you could touch impossible. We dream that we can, we think we’ve finally got our hands on it, but the truth is, it’s all a lie.” 

There’s something sad in her eyes Jean’s never seen before. She turns, looking Mikasa full in the face. 

“If you care about Eren, you’ll convince him to stop this before he breaks his own heart. He wasn’t ready. We all know that. He’s there because Levi demanded it, because he was afraid, because he doesn’t want to loose his own touch on the impossible. And look what it did. Look what he is now. Just some hollow bitter man full of mistrust with no one to love. Do you want him to become that? Do you want Eren to walk out there, onto that stage, in front of all those people, and be solely responsible for ruining the theatre he’s loved since he wasn’t even old enough to read?”

Jean can’t say anything. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. He’s never heard Annie say more than a sentence and now suddenly it’s as if some lock as broken off of her and everything dark and vicious is snapping free. Her eyes slant angrily, her fingers white-tight around the glass. He thinks she might be shaking.

“It’s all lies,” she whispers. “That article isn’t the lie. All the rest of it is. Him, standing on that stage, talking about service, and opportunity, and privilege. He doesn’t know the meaning of that word, with his upperclass education and trust fund security under his ass. We’re told we can excel. We’re told we can reach heights that we never dreamed were possible. But what’s waiting at the top we can’t see? What does it all amount to? Art. That’s just a word invented by people with too much free time who couldn’t hold a fucking hammer. It’s not sacred. It’s not something to protect and coddle. They deserve this. All of it. They deserve to be forced to take a good, long, hard look at what they’ve done with their lives and really consider if it’s been worth it.”

Mikasa’s staring at her with intense focus. “It was you. The article. It was you.”

Annie doesn’t seem to hear her. “It’s all bullshit anyways. Why does it matter?”

“Oh my god…” Jean stares. “Annie why? Why would you do that?!”

“What?” Annie says, suddenly looking at them. “Tell the truth? It is the truth. You know that don’t you? The theater’s been doomed for years. If it can’t handle the burden of that it needs to be shown. You should be thanking me, for trying to put it out of it’s misery, for trying to save Eren before he ruins himself.”

“The fire alarm. The cigarette someone left there,” Jean murmurs. “That was you… from the beginning. You’ve been trying to stop this.”

Mikasa’s look is burning. She’s suddenly standing very straight. “Why Annie?”

“Does it matter why?” She snorts, not looking back at her. “What matters is now. Eren has a way out and he needs to take it, before he humiliates himself more than he can bear.”

“Annie?” Mikasa says gently.

“What?” Annie turns to her.

She doesn’t have time to duck. Mikasa’s closed fist crashes into her face, throwing her back so hard she staggers into the closest table. It clatters to the ground in a mess of noise, chairs along with it, glasses and bottles breaking as it goes. Instantly, the bar explodes into action.

People are pushing to get out of the way of the fight, forcing Jean back as he tries to reach them, to stop them. Through the shoving shoulders and pushing arms he sees Annie laughing harder than he’s ever seen her laugh, chucking her glass against the wall and getting a closed fist directly in Mikasa’s stomach. 

“HEY!” A voice yells. Jean recognizes it. Reiner. He’s shoving through the crowd easily. The rest of their group is moving as well, turning in shock to see the fight unfolding. 

Annie swings again but Mikasa manages to dodge it, snapping a fist into her gut. Annie coughs, still laughing through it all. She slams her foot down on Mikasa’s toes and Mikasa hisses sharply, falling back.

Jean shoves his way free. Annie swings again, Jean manages to shove her, but he pushes her harder then he meant and suddenly she’s falling, head knocking against the table with a nasty smack as she cries out.

Jean turns in shock to see her lifting a hand full of broken glass off of the floor. Suddenly, something hits him. Something hard. 

He staggers back, clutching his jaw, trying to blink the white out his eyes. Reiner’s standing in front of her, fists clenched, chest rising and falling heavily as Bertholdt lifts Annie carefully off the floor.

“What the fuck!” Jean yells, clutching his jaw. “It’s her fault, it’s all her fucking fault! She’s the fucking traitor!”

Reiner hits him again. Jean staggers, blood suddenly filling up his mouth. He blinks. There’s a fist raised in front of his face, and then suddenly it’s gone. 

Reiner staggers back, split lip shining bloody and wet. Marco’s standing in front of Jean, breathing hard. He’s only there for a moment before he crashes back against Jean as Reiner returns the punch. Somewhere in the crowd Kira screams. Reiner’s hand snatches Marco’s collar, lifts him up. He hits him again. Again. Again.

“REINER!” Bertholdt screams.

Reiner stops. His knuckles are red.

Bertholdt’s holding Annie tight in his arms. His look is pleading. “We have to go. Now.”

Reiner stares down at Marco. He blinks. He lets him go, stepping back and away.

The bar is silent, only the sound of breaking glass under his feet. 

“We shouldn’t have stayed,” Bertholdt says gently. “I told you we shouldn’t have stayed.”

Reiner’s face shifts, and suddenly he’s hurrying, pushing them and himself out the door and into the cold of the city.

Marco groans, falling backwards against Jean, and suddenly everyone is moving again. The bartender is yelling, hurrying out the door to try and catch them. Any remaining patrons are stepping back, staring at the damage. Their group is shoving forward, heading in to help pick up what’s left.

Jean can feel the warmth of his friend pressed against him, the smell he always has: talcum powder and something he thinks might be pencil shavings. His jaw is throbbing. He’s sure he’s bleeding. But he ignores that. He places his hands on Marco’s hips, holding him close, shutting his eyes.

Suddenly hands are pulling them apart and Jean’s too tired to stop them. The voices start to filter in. He tries to see the room properly again. 

Mikasa’s standing again. Eren’s close to her with Armin on the other side, each with an arm around her hips, making sure she’s stable.

“I’m fine,” she insists, even though her nose is bleeding. “I’m fine.”

“What the fuck was that?!” Connie stares.

“It was them,” Jean manages, “The article. The sprinklers. They did it.”

“What?” Krista stares. “No, no, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“No,” Sasha agrees. “It doesn’t.”

Jean looks for Marco. He’s sitting on a stool now. Kira’s examining his injuries. He looks half conscious, likely concussed. He’s bleeding furiously from his nose and suddenly Jean’s pushing his way closer to him. He wraps an arm under his, lifting him up. Marco doesn’t argue, easily letting his weight push against Jean.

“I’m taking him to the hospital,” Jean says sternly.

“Hey, hey, wait,” Sasha says suddenly. “You’re as beaten up as he is, you’re in no state to be ‘taking’ him anywhere.”

“I’ll take him,” Kira says, getting a hand around Marco’s waist and trying to pull him towards her. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Jean…” Marco mutters through a busted lip.

Suddenly, fury sparks in Jean’s chest and he doesn’t know why. “No,” his hand tightens around Marco’s back. “No, no you don’t ‘need’ to. _I_ need to! I need to take him. He was stupid and he didn’t have to do it. He’s messed up, and this is always my fault, and it is now, alright, and I need to take him. _I need to take him!_ ”

“Calm down Jean, jesus,” Connie tries, edging closer. “It’s alright.” 

Jean tries to focus. Marco’s hand is tight around his back. His head’s fallen against his shoulder. Kira’s stepped away a few steps, she’s watching them with a strange expression.

“We’ll all go,” Armin says firmly. “Now. We’ll take Eren’s car.”

“Yeah, right,” Eren agrees, mouth set in a tight line, arm firm around Mikasa. “Let’s go.”

Jean nods quickly and quietly. He can’t let go on Marco and he’s not sure why. But Marco doesn’t seem to mind.

Someone stays behind with the bartender. Ymir he thinks. He’s not sure. Ten minutes later and it’s him, Marco, and Armin squeezed into the back of Eren’s car. Mikasa buckles in to the front and Eren pulls out as fast as he dares. The lights of the city flash by as they drive. Jean can feel his eye swelling up under him. He can feel the weight of Marco’s body pushed close and warm. He puts his hand down to rest it on his own leg and find’s Marco’s instead. He doesn’t move it back again until the car slows to a stop at the Emergency Room entrance, and even then it’s harder than it should be to let go.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your comments and support of the story. It was tons of fun! And who knows, there might be ficlets in the verse in the future :)

One week. They have one week. 

Eren stares up at the ceiling. It’s different than the ceiling of the dorms, well, back then he hadn’t even seen the ceiling waking up, only the underside of a bunk bed. Now Armin’s in another room, down the hall instead of breathing steadily above him. It’s just Eren, alone with the sounds of the city. 

It’s strange to think that it hasn’t even been four months since he was laying on his back, keeping his eyes closed and insisting to himself that he’d gotten enough sleep to make the auditions his best. If he’d known then he’d be dancing lead in the spring production, well, he probably would have started looking for the magic lamp he must have found to bring about such a scenario.

He’d told himself back then he wasn’t going to fail. He shuts his eyes and tries to do it again. It’s not quite as simple this time. After all, back then he’d only had himself to disappoint.

He opens his eyes again. It’s silly, really. There’s a week left of rehearsals. The only thing left to do is make them count. So, he takes a deep breath, and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Out in the kitchen Armin’s already made breakfast. There’s pancakes, juice, and fruit ready and waiting on their second hand table. Mikasa’s flipping through a paper where she’s seated, one leg up on the opposite chair, stretching already. 

“How’s your foot?” Eren asks, eyeing it critically. Most of the toes still look like they’ve been painted unique and gruesome colors.

 “It’s fine,” Mikasa says. “Like I said yesterday. And the day before.”

 Eren frowns as he pulls out his seat. “Doesn’t look fine.”

 “It was just bruises, you know that. I’ve been on it for over a week already, it’s not giving me trouble. She didn’t break anything.”

 “Not that she didn’t mean to,” Eren grumbles.

 “I don’t think she did,” Mikasa says. “I don’t think she seriously wanted to hurt me.”

“You keep saying that,” Armin sighs, turning around with a plate of bacon and sitting down beside them. “I don’t know why. They obviously had some malicious intentions.”

 “It’s still so insane,” Eren says, pushing some pancakes onto his plate. “I can’t believe they would do something like that, like _this._ ”

 “We don’t really know if it was ‘them’,” Armin says. “Reiner and Bertholdt beat Annie to the director to admit their actions, but who knows if they were just covering for her or not.”

 “They’re all gone now anyways. Contracts destroyed. I think Erwin even got a restraining order,” Mikasa says. “It’s so weird. I keep expecting to see them in the halls or sitting in the back at practice.”

 “Did Hanji tell you anything else about what they said?” Eren asks Armin.

 Armin pours himself another glass of juice. “Well, I don’t think it’s anything new. Annie’s father was the head choreographer out in Moscow, came there from France with her when she was pretty young, after some negative press in Paris. They stayed there until he died, stress, heart attack, something along those lines. Seems like she came here with the other two right when we all did to get inside the theatre for some kind of revenge. It’s all very operatic.”

 “I don’t think that was it…” Mikasa trails.

 “That’s what she said,” Armin says simply. “What else would it be.”

 “I don’t know,” Mikasa shrugs. “She just doesn’t seem that… I don’t know. She didn’t seem happy about ruining anything. She didn’t feel vengeful. She just seemed tired.”

 Eren stares down at his place, watching the syrup press against the butter with slow persistence. 

 “Let’s eat,” he says. “We should get over there. We don’t have much time left.”

 

The theatre’s buzzing with energy. Well, energy or fear, Eren’s not totally sure which, and he’s definitely not sure the two are mutually exclusive. Up on the stage the set is going through it’s final touches. It’s simple, as it’s always been advertised, but there’s large looming pieces making it up now, men and women on ladders making sure everything is secured and safe. Techs are hanging lights, adjusting gels, running electrics and wires. There’s even an orchestra warming up along with the dancers for this final week. Everything’s coming together. But it still feels like a mad scramble.

The anxiety in the room is palpable. Over to one side Eren can see Jean being sewn into Reiner’s old costume. They’d adjusted it a bit last week but apparently it wasn’t enough. They were pretty different in size after all. Jean meets his eyes for a minute before looking away. He’s still looking fairly raw, small cut on his lip sealed but apparent without makeup to cover it. The skin around one of his eyes a bit swollen, more yellow and green than normal. He’s glancing around nervously, seemingly unable to fix on anything in particular. One of his feet is tapping quickly on the floor under him. He looks exhausted. They re-blocked Reiner’s scenes as soon as they knew he wasn’t an option any longer and Jean, as the only understudy who needed to step in, had been pulling double hours ever since. 

Weirdly enough it actually made Eren feel a little better. It was probably sadistic to take comfort in the fact that there was at least one person who seemed as nervous as he was about all of this, but hell, he was going to take solace wherever he could find it. Jean hasn’t been doing bad all considering. He’s better than he gives himself credit for, and he’s always loved dancing with Mikasa. He’d paid attention during rehearsals, and he knew the steps well enough. They are still sinking into him, trying to become known rather than memorized, but they still have a week. The look on Jean’s face seems to say that isn’t exactly enough time to be comforting. And he isn’t the only one.

Everywhere Eren looks he seems to see anxious faces. The revelation that Annie and the others were not only gone, but fired after contributing severely to all the shit the theatre had been wading through lately, had come as as shock to them all. Expressions seem dazed and clouded even now, and there’s fear there, a fear that Eren feels firmly situated in his own stomach. He hasn’t been staying up late practicing any more, not after his talk with the director, but he still isn’t sleeping. He would get home, lie down in bed, and suddenly the weight in his stomach would grow fingers, squeezing and pressing at him until he could barely stand it.

Petra is standing by the stage, looking around at the theatre. Her toes are tapping against the floor under her, fingers knitted anxiously together. Eren wonders what she’s thinking about. It isn’t hard to imagine. She’s probably wondering how many more days she will get to lean against that stage, stand in this theatre. The fear that this season will be their last has suddenly become very real to all of them. If they don’t make this show count in all the ways it has to, the future seems unavoidable.

 “Alright,” a strong voice calls. The director strides to the front of the room, clapping a few times to silence the crowd. “Settle in please, we’ll go over notes before starting today.”

He looks impossibly more exhausted every single day. Eren wonders if Erwin’s sleeping even less than he is. He wonders when the last time he left the theater was. When Eren’s up late, tossing against the fear roiling inside him, he at least has other things to distract himself with. He can listen just hard enough and hear Armin’s soft breathing in the room across the hall, both their doors a few inches ajar. He can imagine Mikasa in her room past the kitchen, sleeping secure and safe and comfortable. And that helps sometimes when nothing else does. But the director doesn’t have that. It’s just him, and the fear that everything he’s built will crumble around him, leaving nothing but dust. Eren’s just a first year dancer, someone thrown in an insane situation with quite a bit to prove but not a whole lot to loose. Erwin has everything to lose, and none of them have any illusions that if this does fail, if all this chaos builds into something they can’t overcome, Erwin Smith be the one feeling the fullest force of the fall.

 Erwin runs his hand through his hair as he fishes his clean black notebook out his bag, flipping through the pages to get to yesterday’s notes.

 Jean’s suddenly sitting down next to Eren with a sigh.

 “Hey,” Eren manages.

 Jean nods as he sips his water. 

 “How’s it going?” Eren asks, eyeing the costume.

“Oh, you know,” Jean shrugs, “everything I eat makes me feel like I’m going to vomit, my knees won’t stop shaking whenever I sit down, and I feel like someone’s sewn about ten horseshoes behind my chest. You?”

 “About the same.”

 Jean manages half a smile, looking around. “Hey, where’s Levi?”

 “Didn’t see him,” Eren says. “Is it just me, or has he been a little… off, lately?”

 “What, you mean the fact that he hasn’t spoken to anyone since that article came out, leaves the second rehearsal ends, and always looks like he’s trying to solve quantum theorems in thin air when he is here?” Jean rolls his eyes. “Nah, totally normal.”

 Eren frowns, focusing back on the director as Erwin finds the right page. 

“Alright,” Erwin begins again. Hanji sits up straighter in her seat, ready to compare notes with Armin on the yellow pads resting on their laps. “Now, I know we’ve been keeping the wedding dancers further up stage, but I’d like you all to try and press down whenever possible, that way we keep the ‘human’ elements close and tight, and we’ll light them warm in the front, whereas the sylphs etc. we can keep upstage, with the whites and blues—“

 The door at the back of the theatre shoves open, and Levi hurries through.

 “There, see, totally normal,” Jean says sarcastically.

 Eren focuses. Something’s different. Levi doesn’t settle into one of the back rows like he usually does, he keeps moving, deliberate and quick towards the stage.

 Erwin’s apparently noticed something’s up too for he’s let his notes trail off, frowning as the little dancer gets closer and closer. 

 Levi doesn’t stop at the front row, he keeps moving, directly towards Erwin. Erwin takes one step back, but it’s not enough. Levi’s arms snap around his neck, pull him down, and he kisses him. Hard.

 Eren gapes. Jean’s snorts on a mouthful of his water. The fearful energy of the theatre all around them is suddenly snapped into something stunned out of any anxiety.

 Levi doesn’t stop kissing him. Erwin’s still got his notebook in one hand, holding it clumsily, his neck bent the wrong way to reach Levi, but somewhere through all that one of his hands finds Levi’s hip and holds on.

 Two rows behind them Ymir whistles.

 Finally, Levi lets him go. The director stares back at him, apparently as shocked as the rest of them, eyes foggy and wide, hair ruffled. “Um.”

 Levi turns back to them. His cheeks are a little flushed, but otherwise he looked exactly as nonplussed as he always does.

 “And what the fuck’s wrong with all of you? Someone die?”

 The cast stares back at him, too shocked to say anything.

 “Look,” Levi says, “I don’t know about you, but I don’t really give two shits what a bunch of old farts have to say about the theatre. Or me. Or anyone. Honestly, I’ve always had a bit of a hard time giving more than one shit about the theatre. Really, I just like to dance. And this is a pretty damn good one we have here. So fuck them. Fuck all of it. Let’s just do what we came here to do.”

 Something shifts around them. Eren’s not sure what, but he feels it, like a sigh, unheard but present from everyone in the room. 

 He feels himself smile, and it’s easier than it has been for months. Someone lets out a heavy breath, but he’s not sure if it’s himself, or Jean, but it feels good, no matter who it was.

 At the front of the room, Erwin’s smiling too, and Eren’s not sure if he even realizes it.

 “Anyways, sorry to interrupt,” Levi says. He steps away, heading for a seat in the front row. 

 Hanji grabs him on the way and drags him down low enough to kiss one of his cheeks loudly. Someone laughs, a few people even. Eren can’t remember the last time any of them laughed like that. The grin on Eren’s face isn’t fading. Something behind his chest feels stronger than it has since that article. 

 The director watches as Levi settles in, eyes bright where they hadn’t been before. He pulls his notebook back in front of his eyes, and clears his throat, trying to focus. He can’t seem to push the small smile away. “As I was saying: downstage…”

 

Eren’s breathless, even half an hour after rehearsal. It felt _good_. Better than it has in week, no, better than it has felt _ever._ They’re getting there. They’re actually getting there. Suddenly, like some kind of fucking magic, they all felt united. Wether it was under Erwin’s sudden energy or Levi’s inspiring indifference he wasn’t sure. Probably a combination of both. And for the first time in weeks people were leaving the theatre smiling, joking, laughing as they pushed out into the cold of the city air.

Eren finds himself looking for Jean outside the dressing rooms as Armin and Mikasa leave ahead of him. Jean’s doing well, better, especially after today and he wants to make sure he knows that. They’ve never exactly “gotten along”, but some sudden surge of camaraderie makes him want to tell him he’s doing better. Maybe, it’s because he knows how much he’s needed it himself over the past few months.

He catches him with Marco, heading down the halls towards the door. They look a bit ridiculous walking together, faces yellow and green in places with a bit of purple thrown into the mix. Marco’s nose still has a bandaid pasted over it, one lip split near the edge. He’s got a cut over his eyebrow as well, held together with two neat stitches. 

“Eren!” Marco beams, holding up his hand as he sees him. “Great practice!”

Eren slaps the offered hand, gripping it after and smiling back. “Thanks man, you too.”

“Seriously though,” Marco says, all of them continuing together towards the doors, “it’s so much better, better than ever. I think you’re really getting it.”

Jean grumbles next to him, but his scowl seems far less genuine than it has all week. 

“You were good Jean,” Eren forces out. “Today I mean. Seriously. I think you’ll nail it.”

Jean glances at him, something hopeful smothered in his eyes before he looks back at the tiled floor. “You’re gonna have to work on that sarcasm, Jaeger.”

“Yeah,” Eren snaps, “because I’m just that much of an asshole.”

“It’s no use, Eren,” Marco sighs. “I’ve been telling him the same thing for the past hour. He doesn’t want to believe it.”

They get to the door, pushing it open easily. It’s not as cold as it has been with the spring season approaching in more ways than one. There’s a thickness to the air again that there never is when it’s freezing, a weight to it that speaks of melting snow and approaching warmth. Eren takes a deep breath and when he releases it hardly shakes at all.

“How’s Kira? She was nice,” Eren asks Marco, glancing over at them. “She coming to the show?”

“Oh um, nah,” Marco says, eyes on the wet stones under their feet. “We decided to break it off.”

“Shit, sorry,” Eren tries. “I hope the fight didn’t freak her out.”

“No, it wasn’t that,” Marco shrugs. “It just… wasn’t quite right. She saw that. She might come anyways though. She was excited about the show.”

Eren makes a small noise of acknowledgment. Their steps carry them across the square and onto the sidewalks. It’s not a long walk, Jean and Marco’s place is right on the way to his own apartment. He wonders if Armin’s making pasta again. He’s gotten freakishly into making food for them all ever since they started living under their own roof.

Jean suddenly slows next to them. Eren looks up. “What’s up?”

Jean’s frowning at the street just ahead. Eren looks.  Jean and Marco’s building is just a few meters ahead. There’s two people leaning against the stoop. One’s blond, the other’s tall.

“Shit,” Marco swears.

Jean’s still glaring.

Eren frowns and instantly starts walking.

“Eren!” Marco yells. “Wait up, jesus!”

They both end up following him, close and fast. Eren stops in front of the stoop, glaring back at the two figures.

“Leave. Now,” he says, eyes narrowed.

“Look,” Reiner says, stepping back respectfully. “We just came to apologize.” 

“It’s a bit late for that,” Jean says, finally reaching them with Marco.

Reiner looks at them both, frowning at the damage on their faces. “I hope it isn’t.”

“But we can go,” Bertholdt says, voice calm and quiet. “If that’s what you want.”

Eren glances at Jean and Marco. He probably shouldn’t be here. They were waiting for them.

Jean’s shoulders are tight, eyes firm and glaring. He looks like he might move for them, but Marco has a hand on his arm.

“Say what you have to say,” Marco answers. 

They look exhausted, wrecked. They’re standing close together on the stairs, shoulders hunched against the cold, just touching.

“I didn’t mean to,” Reiner starts, “—I didn’t mean for it to go like that. I just… I saw you pushing Annie and something just snapped, man. I’m sorry. To both of you.”

“That’s it?” Eren says sharply. “What about the theatre? The article? That was you too, wasn’t it? That’s what you told the director.”

“We didn’t want her to take all of it,” Bertholdt says. “It’s always been the three of us. Since we were little. It’s not fair for her to take the blame all alone.”

“So it was just her?” Jean asks. 

Reiner sighs. “No, we knew: what she wanted, what she did. We didn’t say anything. We would have helped her if she had asked. We were there to help her. Always have been. She’s our friend.”

Eren snorts. “Some friend.”

“You can’t say that,” Bertholdt says. “What if it had been Armin, Mikasa? You wouldn’t have been there for them?”

Eren frowns. “They wouldn’t do anything so crazy.”

Bertholdt smiles, tired, weak. “Crazy’s relative.”

“It was illegal,” Marco says firmly, “pulling the fire alarm, breaking confidentiality agreements in the contracts you signed, assaulting us, all of it.”

“We know,” Reiner says, “and we’re sorry, honestly. We were with you all for so long that it just… things slipped away. For us at least. But never really for her.”

“What things?” Eren asks before he can stop himself.

Bertholdt digs his fingers deeper into the pockets of his coat. “Annie’s mom was a great patron of ballet. She organized a program that ran dancing workshops in orphanages around Europe. Reiner and I were in one, a small town outside of Munich. Annie came with her when she ran them. We saw them twice a year, for two years, and then they stopped coming. We didn’t know then, but Annie’s mother had died, cancer I think, we never really knew. It was years ago, and a lot of the money that used to go into Annie’s mother’s theatre, money used to run those programs, started going to more popular theaters.  Especially when Levi Laurent began to shine on American stages.  Annie came back with her father three years later, and they took us to Moscow with them to dance full time. I don’t know what would have happened to us otherwise. Ballet’s an expensive hobby for two kids without anything in the world.”

Jean’s still frowning, but his shoulders aren’t as tight as they have been.

“Annie’s dad was never totally there,” Reiner picks up. “He put a lot of pressure on her. He didn’t handle it well when his wife died. He was kicked out of the Paris theaters, when their sponsors weren’t happy with the quality of his work stacked up against American institutions. He went to Moscow. We all went with him. But, he never really got over the wrongs he thought had been done to him. He drank, and he hated the theaters that stole focus. And eventually he sent Annie here, to try and do something about it, to try and restore balance. And we went with her. We always do.” 

“It all sort of faded away,” Bertholdt says. “Without her father there anymore, there was just the dancing. And all of you. And years went by. But then he died, last fall. She wasn’t there with him. And I think she just wanted to punish something.”

Reiner frowns at the stairs under his feet. “We couldn’t leave her alone. Not when she never left us behind.”

Eren’s not sure what to say. He can still feel anger pumping inside of his chest, but it’s hard to give words to. They still look like their friends, but suddenly it seems like there are new bones inside them, and everything’s hard to see clearly.

They are all quiet for a long time.

“What are you going to do now?” Marco asks finally.

Reiner laughs. “Don’t really fucking know.”

“Are you going to keep dancing?” Jean asks.

“Not professionally,” Bertholdt says. “We can’t. Not after this. Who would want to hire us now?” 

Eren tries to imagine never dancing again. He can’t. 

“That doesn’t matter though,” Reiner says. “This, all of this, it’s really brought some things into perspective. There’s a lot to life, a lot I don’t think we’ve ever really thought about. And there’s always dancing, even if it’s not on a stage.” 

“We’re going to drive around,” Bertholdt says. “See the country. See what happens.” 

Marco swallows. “What about Annie?”

Reiner’s face darkens. “She won’t talk to us. Not since we stopped her from taking all the blame.”

They’re quiet for another moment. 

“How’s the show?” Bertholdt asks.

“Good,” Eren says, to his own surprise.

“How’s the costume fitting?” Reiner manages to grin at Jean.

Jean laughs despite himself. “Big.” He glances up at Reiner, softening slightly. “How’s the face?”

Reiner smiles crookedly, running a hand over the purple spot on his jaw. “Not bad. You’ve got a pretty good hook for a Connecticut kid.”

Jean laughs. They fall quiet again, just the sound of the traffic pushing past them on the wet streets.

“Anyway,” Reiner starts finally, “don’t want to take up your whole night. Just wanted to say sorry. Really. Sorry.”

Marco nods quietly. “Thanks.”

Jean sniffs. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Eren holds his look, giving a stiff nod himself.

Together the two step off the stairs, heading back onto the street.

“Good luck, yeah?” Bertholdt calls back.

“Yeah,” Marco waves slightly.

“Oh, and Jean,” Reiner says. Jean looks up. “You’ll kick it’s ass. You were always better than me. Just a little too scared to realize it.”

Jean stares back at him, unable to say anything. Reiner winks, waves, and together the two of them move off down the street, joining with the rest of the huddled bodies on the sidewalk, and out of sight.

The three of them stand on the stoop, staring dumbly down the street after them.

“You know,” Marco starts, “he’s totally right.”

Jean glares at him, but there’s something softer under his expression. “Shut up.”

 

The rest of the week flies by in a flurry of anxious excitement and spinning steps. The edges were finally pulling together, all the pieces lining up and snapping into place. And it’s actually _good_. Very good. Eren finds himself forgetting altogether where they are when he watches the dances unfold across the stage. It’s so sharp, so stark, and so beautiful, everything else seems to fade away and he forgets he’s a tired dancer with nerves still twisting in his stomach, there’s nothing left but the steps, and the lights, and the grace of it all. He’s almost sorry he can’t see it himself, that he can’t sit out in the dark comfort of the audience and really take it in. But it’s a bit late for that now.

“Alright,” Hanji says firmly from the front of the stage. “We’ve finally reached our last rehearsal.”

A chorus of cheers and claps spring up from the seats in front of her, she smiles back and checks her watch.

“I’m not sure where our danseur and director are but I’m sure—“

The door at the back shoves open and Erwin hurries towards the front. Levi is ten steps behind him in significantly less of a rush. 

“Thank you Hanji,” Erwin smiles, rushing quickly up onto the stage.

She grins at him, clearing her throat and glancing down. Erwin follows her look, swearing under his breath before tucking his shirt in properly and muttering a short thanks.

Levi settles into the row in front of Eren and Mikasa, collapsing in the seat next to Petra.

Petra grins. “You smell… masculine.”

“Shut up,” Levi mutters.

“Isn’t that shirt a little big for you?”

“Shut. Up.” He grits.

“Thank you Hanji,” Erwin calls at the front of the theatre. He runs his eyes over all of them. “Tonight, our show opens.”

Eren feels his heartbeat double in speed. He’s been avoiding the thought all day, and suddenly there it is, laid out and undeniable.

“There will be press. There will be sponsors. There will be those waiting for us to fail, and those praying for us to succeed. But I want you to forget about that,” Erwin says. “In the end, none of it really matters. We all are here because of a shared passion, a love for what we do, and the art that we all share. That’s all that matters. We happen to have a stage to dance on, and an audience to watch us, but in the end, it’s just a dance. It would be the same in the practice hall, or out on the street. So, forget the audience, forget the context. Just dance, and enjoy. You’ve earned it.”

Hanji’s bursts into applause, Armin right along with her. The rest of the cast joins in, whooping and smiling, wrapping arms around each other and looking towards the stage with anticipation. Eren focuses on the stage, and tries to keep his breathing even.

 

He didn’t eat dinner. He knows he should have but it just wasn’t happening and he didn’t want to force it and risk vomiting his brains out before the curtain goes up. Armin had shoved a bag of pretzels into his hands on the way in. He pops a few of them in his mouth now, mostly just to keep the promise that he’d do just that.

The dressing room is tight, warm, and golden, all pushing bodies and close voices. The speakers are on in the corners of the room, and the sound of the crowd up above filtering through them, reminding all of them down below of the approaching reality.

At least he’s not to only one who looks nervous. Jean’s focusing intently on his makeup, glaring at himself in the mirror like he’s preparing to murder his own family. Krista is nervously pacing up and down the floor, walking through her steps in quick constrained motions as she mouthes the choreography. Connie and Sasha are distracting each other by playing slaps in one corner until the makeup supervisor scolds them.

Eren swallows, looking down at his feet. His shoes are simple. Familiar. He wishes everything else was. 

“How yah holding up, there?” Ymir asks, sliding into the seat next to him and stealing his mascara.

Eren tries to speak without croaking. “Fine.”

“Oof, that bad, huh?” Ymir grins.

“Leave him alone,” Petra says, suddenly sliding in from behind. Her makeup is more dramatic than any of theirs, lines painted on her face to give her a haggard expression. She looks almost comical this close up, pretty freckles peering through her crone makeup, short hair hidden under her wild grey wig, all tangled with sticks and twigs. 

She wraps her arms around Eren’s shoulders and gives him a squeeze. “He’ll do great. We all know he will.” She mock-kisses his cheek, just barely touching him for fear of leaving lipstick on his makeup. She squeezes his shoulders tightly, smiling at his reflection. 

“Where’s Levi?” Eren asks.

“In his dressing room. He’s always alone before the show,” Petra answers.

Eren can’t imagine being alone right now. He probably has his own dressing room somewhere, but  the voices of his friends close by might be the only thing keeping him sane. 

“Fifteen minutes to curtain!” Mike calls from the back of the room. “Let’s start finding our places.”

Eren takes a deep breath and stands, heading for the door on surprisingly sturdy feet.

“Break a leg kid.” Mike grins as he passes. He smiles weakly back at him.

As soon as he’s in the hall Armin’s in front of him. He looks at him for just a moment and then pulls him into a rib-crushing hug. Eren stares for a minute and then lets his eyes close, holding him back, tight and close. He lets his forehead rest on his shoulder, smelling their apartment, and his shampoo, and all the things that were always home.

“You’ll be great,” Armin whispers. “I’ve always known that.”

Eren lets him go. He smiles and it’s almost easy.

“I’ll see you after. It’s going to go by so fast, I promise,” Armin beams back.

Eren nods. Armin squeezes his hand once and scurries off down the hall. Eren turns back to the stairs. Another hand slips into his, he looks over, and Mikasa’s walking with him.

He doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t either. They just walk together, heading quietly to the back of the stage. He realizes he’s holding her hand very tight. He hopes he’s not hurting her. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“I talked to Annie,” she says suddenly.

Eren looks at her. “What?”

“I went to her apartment. We talked.”

Eren stares at the steps in front of them. “What about?”

“I told her she should come to the show.”

Eren comes to a stop. “Seriously! She’s banned. They have a restraining order on her.”

Mikasa shrugs. “I’m sure she could find a way in.”

Eren frowns. “Why would you do that?”

Mikasa stares off towards the top of the stairs, to the large heavy door separating the stage from them. “She lost something, somewhere along the way. Maybe it was taken from her. Maybe she let it go. I’m not sure. I just know that she loves to dance. You can see it easily enough. She’s always loved it, wether she wants to or not. It’s a shame to lose something you love. There’s so little in this world to keep it bright in the dark places.”

Eren watches her. She looks beautiful, hair folded neatly around her face, makeup simple but lovely, and under all of that the quiet grace that has always been her. 

“I think she’ll like it,” Mikasa says. “It’s a good ballet.”

Eren nods, hand tight in hers. “Yeah. It really is.”

Mikasa looks down at him. “She said she’d like to see you. She said that you would make it extraordinary.”

Eren swallows. “What did you tell her?”

Mikasa smiles back at him. “I said I knew you would.”

“TEN MINUTES!” Mike yells behind them.

Eren takes a deep breath. His chest is suddenly light, all that weight, all that pressure transforming, shifting into anticipation, excitement. He swallows, and together they hurry up the stairs.

As soon as they push open the door and it shuts behind them everything quiets. Backstage is still, dark, heavy. There’s a fluttering energy bouncing along the walls with the voices of the crowd just past the curtains before them. Mikasa squeezes his hand one more time before crossing the stage, hurrying off to her entrance point. Eren moves up stage right, muttering thanks to every tech and dancer that passes with well wishes and supportive smiles. 

His starting position is on stage, resting in the chair aligned just right of center, in front of one further back for Jean. He could go out there now, settle in and wait. But he doesn’t. He stands, just off the stage, looking at the chair waiting in the center.

“Is it comfy?”

Eren turns. Levi’s leaning against the wall beside him. He’s dressed, white costume and simple but pale makeup, hair pushed back from his face. 

“Um,” Eren looks back at the chair. “No really.”

“Too bad,” Levi snorts.

Eren stares at the stage. “Are you nervous?”

Levi shrugs. “Not really. What about you?”

Eren focuses on the chair. The light above it is casting a strong shadow. 

“Yes.”

Levi follows his look. “You shouldn’t be.”

Eren laughs. “Why not?”

Levi looks at him, sharp and unwavering. “You’re a good dancer.”

Eren stares back. “… Seriously?”

Levi doesn’t flinch. “Why else do you think I told them to pick you?”

Eren gapes, a little flare of anger suddenly lighting in his chest. “You said it was because you didn’t think I would drop you!”

Levi smirks. “Eren. I _know_ you won’t drop me. But you have something I never have.”

“What?” Eren asks.

“You love this. Really fucking love it. _Weirdly_ love it. More so than anyone I’ve met. That’s why I asked them to pick you and that’s why they did. You have nothing to be nervous about.”

Behind them someone snorts. “Yeah, lucky you.”

Eren turns. Jean’s standing a few feet back. He’s not in his chair either. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, feet tapping anxiously on the floor. 

“Don’t be a baby Kirschtein,” Levi grumbles. “I’m not pepping you up to. I left my pompoms at home.”

Jean’s makeup mostly covers the bruises still lingering on his cheeks. He rolls his eyes in Levi’s direction. “Great, thanks.”

“ _Jean!_ ” someone whispers suddenly.

Eren leans back, peering into the darkness. Marco scurries up to them, breathing hard. “I thought I was going to miss you!”

“Marco, jesus, it’s almost curtain!” Jean swears, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the looming red mass separating them from the audience.

“I know, I know, just…” Marco’s breathless. “I just, I wanted to say...”

Jean stares, whispering hard, “Jesus christ, _what?”_

Marco looks back at him, takes one breath, and kisses him. 

Jean let’s out a shocked rough sound. The surprise lasts about half a second. His eyes shut tightly, hands suddenly finding their way into Marco’s hair and pulling him closer. Eren instantly looks away, cheeks flushing up. 

Levi snorts next to him. “Told you. Haircut’s a dead give away.”

Someone takes a breathe behind them and Marco whispers something that Eren thinks is “sorry” or “good luck” or both, and then he’s dashing away again. 

Eren glances over his shoulder. Jean’s standing there with a stunned expression and a stupid smile on his face. 

“Your lipstick’s fucked up,” Eren says.

“Shut up Jaeger,” Jean grins, hurriedly wiping a hand across to fix it.

Levi glances over at Eren. “I’m not kissing you.”

Eren laughs. “Good. I bet the director punches like a freight-train.”

Levi smiles. “Damn right.” He nods his head in the direction of the empty chair. “So, what are you two waiting for?”

Eren looks out, at the stage. The surface is dark, but he can see the scuffs and marks from thousands of feet before him: Levi’s feet, Erwin’s, Mikasa’s, even his own. He wonders if he left one of those marks months ago, during the auditions, when he’d stood just there and done something he feared was impossible.

He takes one deep breathe and walks out into the stage. Jean follows. They both take their positions.

It feels like he’s hardly there a minute when the lights behind the curtain dim and a heavy hush falls over the audience. Eren closes his eyes and waits for his cue. 

The orchestra’s music unfolds on the other side of the curtain, filling the theatre with perfect harmony. He hears the whisper of the curtain lifting exactly when he knows it should, and then the stage lights warm his face. 

He keeps his eyes shut, listening to the music, playing out the dance in his head. He can sense Levi entering, moving across the stage and all around him, hitting the ground with such weightlessness Eren hardly hears the steps. The crowd is hushed, still beyond the edges of the stage.  

Levi’s hand ghosts against his hair, his lips push against his cheek, and Eren opens his eyes.

It’s bright, so bright he can see nothing of the dark masses he knows must be in front of him. He turns, Levi smiles, and Eren rises to his feet. 

It feels good to be standing, to have the stage under him, right, perfect, and suddenly the steps have never been so easy.

They move through him, as though they know him as well as he knows them. He chases Levi across, pushing him to his exit, holding his arabesque as he leaves before rushing over to Jean. He pulls Jean to his feet, pressing through the story. 

It’s strange to think that Jean wasn’t cast as Gurn from the start. His distain reads so well through his movments, his disbelief of the story that Eren is telling him through his steps of the magical Sylph that woke him and then vanished.

They push back and forth, pleading, and dismissing, when suddenly Mikasa enters. She flows across the stage, filling it with ease, body strong and present, so assured nothing seems impossible.

They move together, all of them. She grins at Eren as they slide through their steps, and then the stage is filling, all of them, their friends, the company, entering, exiting, pushing on and moving together as the dance, their dance unfolds.

Armin’s right. It goes by quicker than he could have imagined. The moments he’s on stage are a rush of light and energy. He’d always thought the crowd would be the worse part, waiting there, watching for any fault, but it’s just the opposite. He can feel their love, their attention, rapt, transfixed, and at the end of each number, their applause soars louder than he ever imagined it could.

He’s hardly off stage at all, and when he is it feels like just a flash of darkness before he’s moving on again, into the warmth of the lights, the flow of the dance pulling him into it again with a will of it’s own.

He moves back and forth with Petra against the stark lines of the forest, the shroud a thin light fabric pulled between them. The sylphs flood the stage, moving as one, perfect, rhythmic, white against the black of the stage. He holds the shroud tight as Levi floats on once more, impossibly light, and for a moment Eren thinks he must actually be floating.

The shroud falls around Levi and he twirls through it, wrapping it to his body, and the lightness falls away. All that ease crumbles as he lets himself go limp in Eren’s arms. Eren lowers him to the ground, and it’s all too easy to feel James’ grief in the face of all that grace, all the lightness suddenly grounded and gone. The sylphs drift back once more, mournful, mysterious, lifting Levi, carrying him away. Eren rises, trying to follow them, but Petra is suddenly before him, holding him back, gesturing wide and grand to the wedding party moving through the silhouettes of the forest. Jean and Mikasa - no - Effie and Gurn spin their pas deus, fluid and mirrored, arm in arm. The sylphs vanish into the woods. Eren lets himself fall. He collapsing limp on the stage as as he does, the lights finally fall with him.

It’s only then he realizes how hard he’s breathing. It’s all he hears for a second, his own breathes, in and out, and then the crowd explodes into applause, obliterating all other sound.

Someone’s grabbing his arm, pulling him to his feet. He thinks it’s Jean, it sounds like his voice. They’re shoving together, all of them in the dark behind the curtain. He can hear the whole company: Sasha, Connie, Krista, Ymir, Mikasa, Marco, Levi, Petra, everyone, all pushing, lining up, organizing themselves for the bows, and then the lights are flooding the stage again.

Eren laughs out in surprise all at once. The crowd is there. And they’re standing, applauding, cheering. He’s standing in the line with the rest of them, Levi on his right, Mikasa on his left. The audience is screaming, whistling. His eyes scramble to the front row, he can see Armin clapping hard, beaming at him. Hanji and Erwin are next to him, standing tall and proud, clapping as fiercely as the rest. Eren scans the audience, eyes feeling hot, a beaming smile firm and fast on his cheeks. 

In the far back he sees a blonde girl. She’s standing with the rest of them. He can’t see her face, but it feels as if she’s looking right back at him, applauding their performance with a quiet grace. 

Eren takes a deep breathe, bowing with the rest of them. The hand in his right shifts and suddenly he realizes something. He looks down. There’s a ring on Levi’s finger. It’s simple, small, but it’s most definitely a ring, on his left hand, on his second finger. Eren stares at him. Levi shrugs back. 

Eren laughs. “Congrats!” He can hardly hear his voice over the noise of the crowd.

Levi smiles back. “Same to you.” One of his small hands finds Eren’s back and he shoves him forward. The crowd’s applause doubles instantly. 

He stands with the stage under his feet, the voices of his friends cheering behind him. Eren smiles, breathing sunshine. He takes a bow.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think my next SNK story might be a fem!slash Erwin/Levi hospital AU with the gender swap kids just starting after med-school. Not sure when I would write it but if you're interested in seeing it eventually I'll let this tumblr tag know, or you can follow my AO3 <3


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